Awakening: the 148th Hunger Games
by Morterra de Vancy
Summary: The Hunger Games cannot be allowed to continue. This thought is ever-present in the Districts, but the Capitolians love a good show, and they won't give up their Games without a fight. The tributes of the 148th Games will go through hell and back. The most 23 of them can hope for is that their deaths will be remembered as the catalysts for the end of an era...
1. The Woman in White

**Hi, guys! My name is Morterra de Vancy, and here I am with the start of a SYOT that I'm hoping you will all enjoy. A general warning: this chapter, and probably all my chapters in the future, will have mature themes. You have been warned!**

**I'll write more down below. For now, I'll just say that this chapter seemingly has nothing to do with the Hunger Games. But I promise it's not _completely _random. I'm one of those people that likes to have an interesting backstory running alongside the more prevalent SYOT story, so expect to see more of these "random" chapters in the future, if you stick around.**

**Hugs and kisses!**

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><p><em>Prologue: Part One<em>

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><p><strong>Cadmium Lorelite, 29<strong>

**Prostitute**

His bedroom is exactly as I remember it.

Nothing has changed. The room still stinks of cologne, and the air is oppressive, as though weighed down by his presence at my back. The purple drapes block the light from massive glass windows, and they hang listlessly, fraying ends just brushing the carpet. The bed is the only thing that seems to have changed: where it was once an average bed, I find it now to be huge, miles wide, an expanse of rumpled sheets and twisting limbs so massive that everywhere I turn I can see it, all around me.

He puts a hand on my shoulder. Something jumps and twists and finally settles in my stomach, in a grudging sort of way. "Cadmium," he says. "You look… ravishing."

I hate the way he says the word. The way he says it, he wants to ravish me himself, and I can't abide that idea. Not anymore.

My lips twitch up at the corners, bare just a hint of teeth. I turn and face him. He eyes me appraisingly, and his eyebrows rise slightly as he takes me in, examines every curve of the body that he knows so well. "A bun," he manages finally.

I blink. "I'm sorry?"

"You're wearing your hair in a bun." He manages a loose sort of gesture. "You never used to do that."

The thing inside me coils, sensing danger. I ignore it. "Trying something new," I admit. My voice has gone faint.

He glances away. "Cadmium," he says again. "You know it had to be done—"

"I didn't come here to talk about that." Impatiently, I pull the coat from my shoulders. It falls to the carpet with a muffled thump. He shivers.

"I came here," I continue, moving forward, "to apologize." My hands find his, and our fingers interlock. Just like old times. Up close, my nose almost brushing the front of his uniform, the smell of perfume is overpowering. Tears prick at my green eyes, and I press my cheek against his chest and look away. "I was wrong. I was wrong, and we both know that."

One of his hands lets go, and it travels to my waist. "Cadmium…" he murmurs, questing fingers snagging at the hem of my dress. He looks at me with a question in his eyes.

I nod, smiling faintly, and he pulls the dress up and over my head. Then his eyes darken, almost imperceptibly, and he attacks me like an animal. His fingers dig into pliant skin and they dig _deep._ It hurts, and I want to make some sort of protest but I moan back, tug at his bottom lip with my teeth. Tear the shirt from his shoulders. We're stumbling backwards, towards the bed, and the thing in my stomach is ready now. _I _am ready. I am more ready for this thing than I have ever been.

I land on my back against the bed. Instinctively I arch, try to push away, but his weight crushes me down and I clumsily translate the action into a sort of sensual wriggle. His hands are everywhere, and I let them roam free. I don't feel them. All I can feel is the slight residual pain in my scalp, from all the combing. I wanted the bun to be fucking _perfect._

Gently I push on him, indicating in a language we both know well that it's my turn to be on top. He obliges easily, flipping onto his back, gazing up at me. My lips are swollen, and I lean in and press them to his neck. He closes his eyes and _shudders, _and that I do feel. It shakes me to the core.

The pin skewered through my hair comes out very easily when I tug on it. The end, sharpened to a point, pricks my finger, and the prick of pain is small and easily ignored. My hair falls, tumbles down gracelessly in silvery sheets that frame my face. The smile is gone. The lust is gone. The pin feels heavy and cold against my sweating palm, like a brand of ice.

Head Gamemaker Carron Fioro manages a single grunt before I plunge the pin into his solar plexus.

His eyes open wider than I thought possible. The corners of his eyelids might be tearing, the way he's going on. Both hands fly to his throat in an attempt to reverse the damage. An attempt that will fail.

My hands are like weights. I refuse to let go of the pin; instead, I press harder, and harder still. My knuckles brush up against the entry wound. It is so warm, and wet. Like torn meat.

Carron kicks, gurgles. On a sudden whim I remove the pin from his throat, and he gasps brokenly, a toy run out of energy. His own fingers are digging into the wound now. He wants to push it closed. The animal brain inside him still believes that he can save himself. His eyes are rolling, frantic, and I can almost hear the scream he is dying, literally dying, to produce.

His blood coats the pin. A single droplet falls onto the sheets, and I remember when it was my turn, when the doctors held me down while I screamed and thrashed, when the sedative took hold and dragged me away. When I awoke, dazed and near-senseless, and I realized that the heavy presence that had been within me had been cut out, destroyed, taken away. I remember seeing the blood on my thighs. I remember my scream then, and I imagine that the scream Carron wants to make would sound rather similar.

Carron is kicking less now. His eyes have begun to film. Those slate eyes. When he told me that the procedure would happen whether I wanted it or not, I felt something inside me fracture.

I reposition the pin and slide it through the tough flesh of his left eye.

He moans, spits blood onto chapped lips. Tears streaming from the wounded eye, a miniscule pool of blood forming around the pin. He has nothing left within him that would allow him to protest.

With a sudden jerk, I've removed the pin from his eye. Both eyelids immediately flutter closed, and he whimpers and flops uselessly on the covers.

"You killed my baby," I whisper, but the only part of him that might have reacted is already dead.

I leave him then, drive the pin into the place where his heart would be, if I believed that he had one. My clothing comes back on in a flurried series of mechanical movements. The heavy purple drapes are not easily moved, but I fling them back until light has transformed the mausoleum of the Head Gamemaker's room into something alive. The glass breaks around the same time the skin at my knuckles does. I wonder if the noise will draw attention, consider the fact that I will not make it three steps out of here before the bullets rip me into senseless pieces.

It matters very little to me. When they pulled Carron Fioro's baby from my womb, when they killed my treasure, they killed me too.

I slip into the garden, and am miles away before the alarms finally begin to blare.

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><p><strong>So, yes. Mature themes. I hope I didn't make anyone overly-uncomfortable. Sorry if I did :(<strong>

**On to the more important stuff: submitting! If you want to submit a tribute (I hope you do!) the form and other important information is on my profile page. Hopefully some of you are interested, and if that's the case, you know where to go!**

**Even if you don't want to submit, I greatly appreciate that you read all the way down here. You're a cool person :)**

**See you around, bub!**


	2. A Portrait of the Artist

**Eyyy, guys! I'm back again, with yet another chapter that appears to have nothing to do with anything but does, in fact, have something to do with _something. _If you're reading this story and you've already submitted a tribute, we're already bros, and you're an awesome person. If you're reading this story and don't intent to submit a tribute, that's okay, we're still bros and you're still an awesome person. If you're reading this for the first time and you're thinking, "_Well gee, submitting might be nice!" _then you're an okay person but you know what would make you an awesome person? Submitting a tribute! And then we could be bros!**

**I know how much that means to you.**

**General Warning: the themes are still mature. That probably won't change.**

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><p><em>Prologue: Part Two<em>

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><p><strong>Aelia Fabius, 48<strong>

**Novelist**

_In the dream, the whore is sparkling like a multi-faceted crystal shard, limbs all awry. Her face is pinched and her eyes smolder, burning blue, bleeding out onto those crystalline cheeks, perfectly molded. Her whole body is alive with energy, and her hands are thick and red and pressed so tenderly against the gash in her lover's throat._

_ He lies skewed on his bed, staring sightlessly at the wall. His body is limp and soft, pliant under her avenging hands. Once he was more beautiful than the whore, more beautiful than most men, with his own strong amber light. With a body hard and unyielding. With blank eyes and a cruel mouth._

_ Now the whore paints her hands with his blood. She straddles the corpse, powerful thighs trembling with energy yet to be released. Her teeth are sharp little points that dig into her plump bottom lip. She smiles, smiles, smiles._

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><p>The bed is too warm. The sheets, silk and cashmere, are wound around my legs in coils. Irritably I kick them away, soles of my feet digging into the mattress.<p>

The bed is too cold. "Fuck," I spit, and I reach for the sheets to pull them back around my plump frame, but they flutter away from my outstretched fingers, pulled by a specter lurking somewhere in the shadows beyond the bed. My fingers slow; I freeze in place. Shadows shift in lazy waves at the foot of my bed, masking the hulking _thing _crouched by my feet.

Two reflective circles in the dark. Eyes, green, glistening with a moist intelligence. The whisper of displaced air as five impossibly long fingers reach for my trembling flesh. Long, white, bone-fingers, with hairy knuckles and swollen joints.

"Not real," I mutter, and turn onto my side.

The fingers never reach me. They never reach me, but I know the thing is still there, crouching patiently. Waiting. Mouth full of blood, thick congealed blood that dribbles down its chin, down its neck, down to its naked chest, to the place where its genitals would be if it were human. It bleeds into the carpet, and I know come morning I am the only one who will see the rusty stain, the depression left from its impossible hands, from the wide, flat feet.

A hand brushes against my spine. I flinch, pull away, and clamber awkwardly to the very edge of the bed.

"Aelia?" Her voice is thick from sleep, her eyelids swollen and tender. I can barely make out her features in the moonlight but her voice is low and sensuous. Her hair is unkempt, and I reach out instinctively and pat it back into place.

"I had a dream," I say brusquely.

"A dream." I hate her tone, her flat no-nonsense I Know What You're Doing tone. "Was it—?"

"It wasn't one of _those _dreams," I snap, and the lie is indistinguishable from my usual vitriol. "I've been taking the pills." It feels good, the lying.

"Okay." I know she suspects, maybe even _knows_—but what the fuck can she do? "A regular dream." She yawns, and her back arches. She's like a cat, a great sleek cat with rippling fur and the muscles underneath coiled and constantly ready for motion. "Was it bad?"

"Not really." I draw my knees up to my chest. My nightdress pulls up to reveal a thigh too shapely—I've been gaining weight in these past few months. I know it isn't healthy. I know there are surgeries. But I can't be bothered. I'm _much _too busy.

"It was about the prostitute that killed the Head Gamemaker," I add, drumming my fingers against my knees. "I'd write something about it, if it hadn't actually happened."

"It's frightening, that she's still out there," Monera muses. "Three weeks is a long time."

_Three weeks is a long time. _I roll the phrase around in my head. I like the sound of it, the connotations it suggests. A lot can happen in three weeks. A prostitute can evade the all-seeing Eye of the Capitol, a President can die and be replaced by a tyrant, a tribute in the Games can become a Victor. _They all make good stories. _Suddenly I can't wait for morning. I _need _to write, need to excise the words so they'll leave me alone, so they won't carve grooves on the inside of my skull, trying to get out.

But the thing at the foot of the bed is still there, now breathing heavily. Monera can't hear it, but I can. The thing sounds labored, wheezing. I imagine it clutching at its own twiggy ankles. I imagine the viscous fluid protecting those luminous eyes.

It is not real, but if I have to see what it actually looks like, on my way to my writing room, I might lose myself completely.

"In my dream," I mutter, "she was shining from the inside out. It was as if she was made of glass, and her inside were just particles of light, and they were burning like brands." I wipe the sweat from my forehead. "The Head Gamemaker's light had died, along with him."

Monera studies me. I can just about make out the slightly-furrowed brow. "You look sick," she remarks. "You should rest—"

"I'm not fucking sick," I snap, turning my head away. From the foot of the bed, a sudden haunted moan, and I pause, take a deep breath, and try to collect myself. "Sorry," I exclaim, although I'm not sorry, not really. The floorboards shift and I know the thing is moving, and for a moment I imagine it will lurch upwards and reveal itself in all its sickly glory—but it never comes.

"Aelia," says Monera, gently. "My sweet wife. Are you really taking your pills?"

Her voice settles against me like the soft lapping waves of the ocean on a quiet day. She rubs my shoulder, and I lean into her touch. "I'm taking the pills, honey," I breathe, and I know it's right that she shouldn't know. She shouldn't know how I leave the rancid little cylinders under my tongue, how I spit them into my juice later, how I empty out the whole poisoned glass into the sink.

Monera, innocent as she is, could never understand. Without the visions, there are no words. Without the words, there are no books, and without my books there is no money.

She would never understand that. So I let her pet me, and all the while the thing in the shadows whimpers playfully, almost as if it approves.

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><p><strong>Thanks for reading! If you want to submit, head to my profile page! More info can be found there.<strong>


	3. Into the Wild

**Hey guys! This chapter will probably be the last filler chapter in a while because... WE HAVE ALL OUR TRIBUTES! *insert cheers and trumpets here* I'm still waiting on the forms from a couple people who reserved spots, but I think that I'm just going to start writing the tribute chapters now and I'll simply assume that everything is going to work out :)**

**I'm guesstimating that the first pre-Capitol chapter will be up in a little over a week. See you then!**

**(PS. Mature Themes they're still here they aren't going anywhere. I think I'm going to stop warning you guys about that.)**

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><p><em>Prologue: Part Three<em>

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><p><strong>Cadmium Lorelite, 29<strong>

**Fugitive**

I don't notice the puddle until it is too late to abort my step. My bare foot splashes into noxious grey water, and the dull cold shock of it runs up my leg and stops me in my tracks.

Slowly, I pull my foot up and away. Water drips from the heel and the sole, collecting in the spaces between my toes. _Infection, _I think numbly, gazing at the tiny cuts and scrapes crisscrossing the bottom of my foot. The spiked shoes I had been wearing were only slowing me down, and I haven't yet found a replacement pair.

I hop over the puddle, and even the tiny jump takes something out of me. The last time I slept was around three days ago, in a section of tubing so worn that I felt that no machinery would turn on while I nestled myself between pipes and exposed wiring.

It has been constant motion ever since. The sewers are vast and seemingly unending, and there are eyes here that even the Eye of the Capitol has little control over. On my second week below the earth, I am convinced that I saw something pale and hairless peering at me from an adjacent tunnel. I paid it no mind, and eventually it scuttled away. It made me wonder whether the rumors were true, whether the sewers really _were _filled with failed muttations. Or other things.

Other than the not-quite-human, I am constantly running across the Avoxes that toil in the darkness below, sweating and pathetic under the weight of the fairest city. A few have spotted me. None seem particularly keen on informing on me; who could they tell, how could they tell? Why would they? I doubt many of them even know what I've done, and I'm sure none of them actually recognize me. I know by now that my face has been featured on every news channel in Panem, but I doubt the subterranean slaves have been informed.

I've been traversing my current tunnel for nearly two days. It's a small one; there are tunnels down here that are so impossibly huge that I can barely see the ceiling, and great machines whose purposes I can hardly divine. Perhaps I could, if I wanted to, but I've spent these last few weeks a shell, hollow and devoid of purpose. Survival is hardly a purpose. If I turn the next corner and find myself face to face with a squad of Peacekeepers levying rifles at my head, I don't suppose it will bother me overmuch.

I turn the corner. There are no Peacekeepers.

There is, however, a sudden end to the tunnel, with a gleaming silver ladder propped against the wall. I stop dead, body aching. _That leads out, _I think, and wonder whether I've made it out of the city by now. I don't think I have. _Not yet. _I was planning on traveling the sewers until I reached the outskirts of the city, but it seems I've made a wrong turn. _I could go back, _I think, but the idea of trudging back two days' worth of distance makes me almost physically ill.

_If I go back, I'll die, _I decide numbly. When was the last time I had a drink? When was the last time I ate? I remember drinking something from a running pipe several hours ago, but I can't remember the last time I ate anything. It's been days, I think.

The gleaming silver rungs are slippery under my moist palms. I pull myself onto the second rung, stop for a moment to appreciate the gentle agony lapping at my body, and repeat.

The going is hard, but eventually I fall into a sort of rhythm and lose myself in it. My eyes close, unbidden, and I don't think much at all until my head brushes against cool metal. I tilt my chin back and blearily examine the hatch above me. Suddenly reckless, I release my hold on the ladder with one hand, use it to shove the hatch back. The light that floods the tunnel is blinding, agonizing, and I hunker down on the ladder like a wounded animal, shielding my face.

Eventually the warmth on my forearm feels less scalding and more like something I am willing to deal with. I pull my arm away from my eyes and crawl forward, legs useless and kicking below me. Wherever I am, there aren't many people around, or any people at all. I am alone, blessedly alone.

The air feels unnatural on my pallid skin. I heave myself from the hatch, reborn onto a street paved with rough cobblestone. My fingers drum uselessly, and behind me I hear the metallic scream of the hatch falling closed. It echoes with a sort of finality. _No going back now._

The alleyway is crowded, dingy, and deserted. Far above me, buildings with reflective windows tower, communications lines running between the buildings like webs. _I'm close, _I realize. _I'm getting closer to the edge. _The center of the Capitol is, of course, the richest of all. Here, where the buildings are ugly and nondescript, the citizens must not be particularly moneyed.

I've been to the outskirts of the Capitol many, many times. Before I made it big in the industry, before I became a desired woman, and then a kept woman, this was the kind of place I would go. Seedy back-street bars, basements with exposed fixtures, squealing mattresses. I raise myself onto my forearms and breathe deeply, ribs scraping the pavement. I've come full circle, it seems.

From the very end of the alley comes the screech of tires. My heart leaps in my throat, an animalistic impulse that I have no control over. Slowly, my head tilts to the side. Dirty hair obscures my vision, hair that was once shining silver but can now only be described as grey. But I have no difficulty seeing the dark, nondescript van parked at the end of the alley, blocking the exit. I blink slowly, suddenly imagining the cameras that must be hidden here, peering out from every nook, every cranny. I'm only surprised that they made it here so quickly.

Painfully, I push myself onto my knees. I could stand up, but there is little doubt in my mind that I have no real reason to. Either they will execute me here in this alley like a dog, or they will drag me back to the very center of the Capitol. Perhaps they will even throw me into the Pit, the most infamous prison in existence. I think my crime was too severe for mere Avoxing, but that is a possibility. Or maybe they will televise my execution for all of Panem to see.

These thoughts disquiet me. But all I need do is remember the feel of Carron Fioro's skin parting under the weight of my blow, and the fear leaves me as quietly as it came.

The van door slides open, and a lone figure slips out. Her uniform is black and tailored, clinging to her slender frame. She glances back and forth once, hurriedly, before jogging in my direction. There is a gun at the holster on her hip, but she doesn't reach for it, doesn't appear to be thinking about it at all.

I watch her and betray nothing in my expression. She slows down as she draws closer to me, until I can hear the soles of her shoes clicking against the pavement. Up close, I amazed by her age; she is nineteen, twenty at most, with huge green eyes and dark brown hair pulled back from her face. She cocks her head slightly to the right as she gazes down at me. "Hey," she says finally. "You're Cadmium Lorelite, right?"

I see no reason to deny it. "Yes."

Her expression morphs; she appears almost giddy. "Oh, sweet." Her hand snaps out and she waits expectantly, almost as if she wants me to shake it. _She does want me to shake it, _I realize, half-amused in spite of myself. I would have expected a squadron of Peacekeepers, not a single charming idiot, but she has a gun and that makes her as dangerous as anyone else.

I shake her hand. Her palm is warm against mine, and her fingers wiggle as if her excitement is impossible to contain.

"Ex Sanderson," she says, as she pulls her hand away. "Well—_Lillian _Sanderson, but I'd prefer Ex, if that's alright with you."

"Ex is fine."

"Great." She straightens her back and gives her head a tiny shake, as if preparing herself. "Alright, Miss Lorelite. How would you like to kill the Capitol?"

I blink. "To what?"

"Oh, you heard me." Her smile grows, until it is not friendly at all, until it is a gash in her face filled with sharp teeth. "We want to _kill the Capitol."_

"We?"

"There are people like us, you know. You're not the only one who wants to put a stop to the fucking Games. There are better ways to go about it, but killing the Head Gamemaker is a good start."

"You think I killed the Head Gamemaker because I wanted to put a stop to the _Games?"_

She seems genuinely bemused. "Why else would you kill him?"

I work my jaw, teeth scraping together. "You're a member of a paramilitary group that wants to overthrow the current system of government," I guess.

She raises her eyebrows. "Close. Close enough, really. You in?"

"I—_what?"_

"You heard me," she repeats. "You in?"

My knees are beginning to ache. "How did you find me?" I ask, and I'm aware that it doesn't matter at all, but in this moment I find that I have to _know._

She points down. "We have eyes where the Eye doesn't think to put them. We were informed by one of our people that two days ago you started down the tunnel that would lead you to this hatch. I'm glad you decided to come up for air, by the way. I think you would've died if you'd gone back."

I wonder briefly if I am dreaming. "I thought the same thing."

"We pulled all the cameras in this alley," she remarks casually, as if informing me that at three o' clock it will start to rain. "But eventually the Eye is gonna notice. We have to split, Miss Lorelite. So tell me now, _are you in?"_

"What do you want with me?"

She sighs. "Your face is everywhere, you know. You've been on television for three weeks now. People in the Districts are looking up to you. They think you struck a great blow against the Games for them. I don't know if that's what you _meant _to do, but that's what you did, and there are people that love you for it." She exhales noisily. "What the fuck, if you keep it up you might be the next Mockingjay."

I raise my eyebrows. "That's practically sacrilege," I manage. Indeed, the thought of even being _compared _to the venerable Katniss Everdeen makes me feel small, inadequate, and unsuitable for the task, whatever it might be.

"Call me sacrilegious, then." Ex doesn't seem particularly bothered. "Point is—the Remembrance movement was all about how going back to the way things were, back to the Games, back to the Capitol running the goddamn show, would be a good idea. And so far the whole Remembrance thing has been going fucking _splendidly _for our Capitolian friends. Everything is exactly like it was before the Second Rebellion."

She moves closer to me, until I can feel her hot breath ghosting over my scalp. "Well, the Second Rebellion started with a figurehead, didn't it? And if we're operating under Remembrance principles, then I think the Third Rebellion ought to start the same way. Don't you? You were from District One once, Miss Lorelite. You're a District woman at heart. You haven't forgotten, have you?" Her hand rests on my shoulder. "Come on, Cadmium. _Are you with us?"_

I gaze up at those green eyes, smoldering with an internal fire I can only barely understand.

What do I have to lose, really?

"I'm with you," I decide, and allow Ex Sanderson to pull me to my feet.


	4. Back Home

**Guuuuys! I'm back with another chapter of _Awakening_, in pretty much exactly a little over a week, just as I promised. I think this is a pretty good system that I've got goin' here, so chapters will either come out in a little less than a week, exactly a week, or slightly more than a week. They should never take much longer than that, so if they do I'm sick or on vacation or something.**

**Anyway! This is the first of four Reapings chapters, introducing us to our tributes! Originally I had three chapters planned, but 3 chapters with 8 POVs would be ridiculously long, so I went with this instead. This chapter details the lives of our tributes a month before the Reapings, the next will show them on the morning of the Reapings, the next will deal with the Reapings themselves, and the final chapter will deal with their goodbyes to their friends and families. I hope you are all okay with this system!**

**Here's the chapter now. Enjoy!**

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><p><em>One Month 'til Reapings<em>

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><p><strong>Quinn Asciutto, 16<strong>

**District Ten Female**

The canvas is heavy under my bony arm, and it tugs insistently at the sleeve of my sweater as I march resolutely up the hill, paying as little heed as I can to the way my arms ache in protest. It's too hot for wool, but when I was getting ready this morning I decided that I needed the warm comfort of my favorite sweater, and slipped it on despite the beads of sweat that were even then gathering at the nape of my neck.

By the time I've struggled to the top of the hill, I'm slightly out of breath and quite unprepared for the tableau spread out in front of me. The mayor's house is ridiculously opulent. Compared to my own squat abode, his is a towering mansion with a wrought-iron fence and a neatly-trimmed garden. _Of course it's like this, _I think, glowering. _He's rich, isn't he? _

I don't want to do this, but that's never stopped me before. I continue down the dusty path to the mansion sprawling across the hill. When I state my name into the speakers on the gate I am admitted straightaway, and halfway down the path the mayor's personal assistant comes hurrying out to help me with the canvas.

I'm a bit flustered, to say the least. The assistant hurries me down the path, talking all the while, and I clutch at my bag with suddenly sweating palms. _This is too much, _I think, _I should go, _but I find myself moving forward all the same, and even nodding once or twice to the eager-to-please assistant.

"Mayor Samson is very excited about this," says the assistant, as she opens the door for me. She nearly drops the canvas as she does so, and I lunge to catch it, barely managing to keep hold of it before it clatters onto the steps.

"Be more careful," I admonish, dusting the canvas gently with my right hand. Honestly, I don't much care if the damn thing is covered in dirt by the time it reaches the mayor, but I imagine that _he'll _care and then this whole enterprise will have been for nothing.

"Sorry," says the assistant, pushing open the great oaken door with her shoulder. "Anyway," she continues, "he's been talking about it for hours." She ushers me into a grand, dimly-lit hallway, filled with portraits of people who I imagine are past mayors of District Ten. I recognize precisely none of them. "Look there," says the assistant, pointing eagerly. "That's where _your _portrait is going to go."

I consider replying, decide against it, and move past the assistant, who sighs as she closes the door behind me. By the time she catches up, I'm halfway to the stairs, determined to get this thing over and done with as soon as possible, home in time for whatever dinner my mother will concoct for us.

The assistant jogs ahead, trying her best to keep up with my quick pace. She slows down in front of a door almost all the way down the hall. It isn't much different than the others, but she glances at it with a sort of reverence in her eyes. "This is the mayor's office," she exclaims breathlessly. "You can head in straightaway. He's waiting for you."

I nod at her, and, because she doesn't seem like she's going to do it, open the door with my one free hand, desperately clinging to my canvas with the other. I slip into the room and kick it shut behind me with a dirty sneaker. _Hah, _I think, feeling quite suddenly as though I've won some kind of victory against authority. _Take that._

The mayor's office is just as elegant as the rest of his home. He sits behind a polished mahogany desk; a porcine man, indeed, he reminds me so much of one of the pigs that live on my best friend Jeannine's farm that I have to internalize a sudden, surprised laugh. I've seen the mayor in reaping day, of course, and a few places around the district—but he tends to avoid the poorer areas of District Ten. It's a wonder he allowed me to come here at all.

When he spots me, a smile spreads across his face. "Welcome, welcome!" he exclaims, hurrying around from behind his desk to shake my hand. Awkwardly I let him grasp it. His palm is warm and slightly sweaty, and I have to force my lip not to curl. I just can't help it. _So this is the man that runs District Ten, _I think, decidedly unimpressed. _This man here is the reason that I'm slated to work with livestock all my life, because I'm from a section of the district he doesn't like. _I squeeze the handle of my bag. _Oh, screw him, _I decide, but I let none of it appear on my face, not for a moment. I don't think he'd like what I'm thinking, after all.

"So you're the artist!" he exclaims. "I must say, I'm awfully excited about this! I've never had my portrait done before." He smiles at me, and appears to be waiting for a response.

"Neither have I," I tell him.

"Right, right." His laugh is mildly uncomfortable, and at least I can take comfort in the fact that he probably feels as awkward as I do. "Well… Shall we get started?"

"Let's."

He points me towards the center of the room, where an easel has been placed in front of a large wooden chair. "Is this setup alright with you?" he exclaims, wringing his hands together. Beads of sweat glint from his forehead. "The chair, the angle? Everything?"

"It's fine." I busy myself with setting up the canvas, internally relieved that it blocks him from my sight. "You can sit down now," I add, as I yank oil paints and a brush from my bag. Very expensive, oil paints. But I've made sure that the expense is to be included in my fee, and I should still have paint left over when I'm done. I'm not going to use it for my own work—I don't paint for fun. But if I can make this portrait thing into a lucrative business, the extra paint will come in handy.

When I next glance around the canvas, the mayor has settled into the chair and is busily rearranging his hands in his lap. He looks up when he sees me, juts out his chin, and smiles. "How does this look?"

_Awful. _"Fine," I tell him.

He visibly deflates. "Only fine?" he quips. "Not _handsome?_ Not _dashing?_"

"Fine," I repeat, a bit louder than before, to get my point across. He takes the hint, and shuts up.

Carefully I dip the tip of the brush into the dark brown paint, in order to accent the unfortunate suit he's managed to cram himself into. I press the brush to the canvas and begin to stroke. In a few short lines I've captured his shoulders and neck. In the interest of monetary gain, I've removed a substantial portion of his weight.

"Miss Quinn?" he asks. "Have you started—?"

"Shh." I'm focused.

"I—_what?"_

"Shh," I repeat, pausing for a moment. "If you talk, you move, and that spoils it. Just keep smiling." It's the most I've ever said to him, and the most I plan on saying.

His smile returns, although this time it is obviously forced. _I can still make this look good, though, _I decide, and get back to work. Portraits aren't particularly difficult, if you know what you're doing.

But as I work on the gold bauble attached to his breast pocket, I have to squeeze my brush very tightly to keep my hands from shaking. _How did he get where he is today? _I think, although it's a mostly rhetorical question. I know how he got where he is. He kissed up to the Capitol, and they rewarded him. That might be a viable option for some, but there's no way in hell I'm going to kneel down and let the Capitol steamroll me, just so I can do something with my life. No, I'm going to get there _on my own, _however long it takes, whatever I have to do.

Time passes quickly when I'm absorbed in my work. Still, darkness has fallen outside the window by the time I am able to put down my brush. I'm famished, thirsty, and exhausted, but I still take a moment to appreciate how I've made the mayor look like an average human being.

"It's done," I tell him, and he jerks awake with a snort. I hadn't even realized he was sleeping.

"Whazzat?" he mumbles.

"The portrait," I exclaim, jabbing at it with my pointer finger.

"Oh!" He stumbles out of his chair, hurries over to examine it. "Oh my!" he exclaims. "This is fantastic work, just fantastic! I look marvelous!" He claps me on the shoulder, and I grind my teeth together so hard I can hear it.

The mayor observes my non-reaction and clears his throat. "I suppose you'll be wanting your money, then."

"Yeah," I agree placidly, as I toss the paints and the brush back in my bag. I hardly spare a glance for the completed portrait, which will soon occupy an exalted place on the mayor's wall. For whatever reason, I suddenly feel like a sellout. _He didn't deserve this portrait, and I didn't want to paint it. I shouldn't have done it._

But as the mayor counts out the bills from his desk drawer and I watch them accumulate, I can't help but appreciate the warm glow of pride in my belly. I take the credits from the mayor, offer up the necessary words of thanks, and leave his office without thinking. I am still in awe of the money now safely tucked in my sweater pocket.

For some, it isn't much. But for me, it's just the beginning. I'll paint portraits, I'll do odd jobs around the district, I'll do what I have to in order to earn enough credits to buy my ticket out of here. I am _not _going to farm for the rest of my life. That isn't where my talents lie.

_This money, _I decide, _marks the start of my new life. My _real _life. From this point on, I'm looking towards the future, and nothing is going to get in my way._

* * *

><p><strong>Ava Widing, 15<strong>

**District Twelve Female**

The miners have been trapped below the surface for three days now.

I'm no miner, but everybody knows what that means. Three days is a long time to go without seeing the sun. Three days is a long time to go without tasting fresh air.

They're going to die.

Once, when I was a child, I might have held out hope. _But we're bringing them food and water! _I might have said. _We can keep doing that until we dig them out, right?_

I'm older now, less naïve. I know how the tunnels shift, and I know how constant darkness beats the will to live out of a person. I know how the dusty air coats the insides of the lungs, and I know that sooner or later those five men will wind up dead.

But when the foreman told me that Hober and I were to be the ones to bring the trapped miners fresh rations, I didn't even think of refusing.

Thus far, we haven't had any trouble. The tunnels leading to the collapsed section of the mines are still intact, and although we've had to avoid a few mine carts here and there, we've been otherwise undisturbed.

Beyond the soft glow of my flashlight, the darkness is inky black and _thick_, and it seems like my light is hardly affecting it at all. I take a step forward, and then another, and wince at the way my right foot catches in the dust and has to be dragged into the correct position. It is easy to forget about my limp, but not as easy in the cramped confines of the mines, where I got the limp in the first place.

"There's the entry point," says Hober, pointing with his free hand. "Are you gonna go in, Ava, or should I?"

"It should be me," I tell him. "I'm smaller than you; I'll fit better. And you have my back, right?" It's a pointless question, really; I _know _that Hober has my back. We've been paired up together to do mine work before, and he's never failed me, never even made any mistakes as far as I can remember. He's one of the most reliable people I know. And when I see him in school, he always makes sure to say hello to me. He's a good person, Hober Madison.

"Right," he exclaims. "Still though, you sure?" He gestures at my leg. "I mean, no offense or anything, but that leg's only gonna slow you down."

"It's alright." As I tell him this, I shuffle towards the entry point. It's a small hole in the side of the tunnel; only someone as slight as I am would be able to slip into it without claustrophobia setting in. "It's not so much a problem when I'm crawling, anyway."

"If you say so." He steps up behind me as I get onto the ground, pressing my palms into the dusty earth. "If something happens, just whistle and I'll grab your legs and pull you out."

"Thanks, Hober." I open my teeth and clamp them around the flashlight, discouraging any more small talk. Then, with my belly scraping the ground, I crawl forward and lose myself in the darkness.

The tunnel is so small that all I can smell is the stink of coal dust. It settles in my dark brown hair almost immediately, and I can only be thankful that I always tie my hair back for this very reason. My loose shirt begins to ride up at my stomach, and I can feel the dust pressing against the bronzed skin near my navel. I crawl forward a few inches, ignoring the way my right leg hitches and bumps against the ground. _It's alright, _I remind myself, _if anything happens Hober will pull me out. The tunnel will not collapse. What are the odds of lightning striking in the same place twice?_

My flashlight illuminates very little, but I keep my jaws clenched as tightly as I can. I don't want to risk losing it; I _really _don't want to fall into complete darkness. I'm not particularly afraid of the dark, but I need to see where the collapsed tunnel and my tunnel intersect, or all this work will have been for nothing.

I know I'm close when a slight cough interrupts my thoughts. My hand is shaking with exertion as I reach up and pluck the flashlight from my mouth. I rub the saliva onto my shirt and turn the light to my left. Sure enough, my little tunnel opens into a wider tunnel, from which I can see the faintest of glows. A dying battery, perhaps? The pity washes over me in a wave. These poor men. These poor, doomed men.

They're going to die. There isn't anything I can do about that.

I kick my left leg once, and it thumps solidly against the roof of my tunnel. A cloud of debris immediately rains down on my pants legs, but it was worth it, as Hober has gotten my message. As I lay prone on the ground, he is taking the necessary items of survival out of a basket. Then I hear the whisper of displaced air, and a moment later a bottle of water thuds against my ribs, hard enough to assert its presence but light enough that it doesn't hurt me. Hober has always been good at sending items to me from the end of a tunnel. Suffice it to say he's never broken any of my fingers.

As Hober slings more and more items into the little pile that is now growing at my ribs, I clear my throat, suddenly uncomfortable. "Hello?" I whisper, and my voice carries in the silence. "Hello?"

A racking cough explodes from the mostly-collapsed tunnel. "Hello?" A man's voice returns to me, thick with dust. "Are you here to rescue us?"

"I—no, I—I'm here with some food and water," I blurt, picking up the first bottle in my hand. The flashlight I rest next to my jaw, where it won't go rolling away. "I'm going to drop everything down to you, alright?"

"Wait." This is a different man's voice, and it is solemn. "Wait. Reed died last night."

I recoil, palms beginning to sweat. _No surprise. Not a surprise. You knew they were going to die._

"I'm sorry," I whisper, and I know the words won't help, won't accomplish anything but the cementing in their minds that _they will be next. _"I'm so sorry, I—"

"We need to know what to do with the body," the second voice interjects. He sounds calm, and I realize that he must have some hope left. The thought helps, somehow.

But I'm so out of my depth. This is not my field—I have no idea what to tell them. As if reading my thoughts, a third voice appears from the darkness below. "You're wasting your time, Marsh. She doesn't know." He lets out a bitter sort of snort. "We're fucked, and you won't admit it to yourself."

"You're not helping," says Marsh. "Girl? You still there?"

"Yes," I whisper, past the lump in my throat.

"What's your name?" asks Marsh.

"Ava. Ava Widing."

"Ava," says the first man, with a cough. "What do you think we should do with the body?"

I let out a tiny sneeze. "Is there anywhere you can roll it?" I suggest. "To keep it away from the rest of you?"

"There's hardly enough room for _breathing _down here," the third voice snarls. "There ain't no place to put him."

"Then I don't know." My voice is small, and faint, and sad. There is no solution; they must have already realized that. "I don't know."

The silence settles on the five of us like a tomb. _That's exactly what it is, _I think, as I drop the first water bottle into the tunnel. _A tomb._

They are disturbingly quiet until I've finished sending them their care package. "That's everything," I announce, doing my best to inject some false cheerfulness into my voice and only partially succeeding. "Someone will come by in the next day or two to bring you some more supplies." I want to add something about them being rescued soon, but that would seem too untrue and I just can't do it.

"Ava?" This is the bitter-sounding third voice speaking.

"Yes?"

"Do you think we're going to die?"

I can hear someone admonishing the bitter man in a harsh whisper. I find myself staring at the waning light through the tiny crack connecting our two tunnels. I know what they want to hear. But I know the truth, too, and I can't stand liars.

"I hope not," I tell them, because it's the only thing I can think of to say.

No one responds, and I wait only a moment before I whistle for Hober to pull me out.

* * *

><p><strong>Molex Scrobble, 12<strong>

**District Three Male**

I just can't believe that the stupid bitch actually agreed to come here alone.

I guess she's not really stupid. Fine, Teka is actually the smartest girl in our class, but that doesn't make her _intuition-smart, _like I am. No, she's fucking stupid when it comes to intuition. Her intuition should have told her to never come to the outskirts of the district all by your lonesome to meet a boy who despises you.

But she thinks she's all-fucking-that, and that I'm just another piece of crap dumbass who doesn't understand how technology works. She thinks that I asked her here in order to beg for her help, just so I can pass our mutual decryption class. As if I give a _fuck _about classes. My father sent me here in the hopes that I would one day make him proud, but technology isn't for me. No, I've come up with a different way to uphold the family name.

That, however, is in the future. In the here and now, I'm alone by one of the few waterways in District Three. This particular canal is practically green from pollution, and the air stinks so bad that nobody ever comes here. My eyes are stinging from the smell, and I take a moment to scrub at them with the back of my hand.

When I next look up, there she is, marching towards me from a block or two away. I consider waving at her, but don't. She doesn't deserve my recognition.

Instead, I lean against one of the huge obsolete hard drives that have been abandoned here and idly pick at my nails as she approaches. As I wait, I sneak glances at her from underneath my copper fringe. Her long dark hair is, as always, impeccably groomed, and she's wearing a fancy dress that she probably thinks makes her look pretty. Well, it does, but she's got an ugly heart so it doesn't matter what she looks like on the outside.

As soon as I can hear her shoes clicking on the pavement, I stop pretending to pick my nails and straighten to my full height, which admittedly isn't very impressive. _Whatever, _I think to myself, _I might not be 5 feet tall but I've got more muscle than anybody else I know. _Unlike the other pussy boys who live in this district, I actually _work out. _I'm strong, and I'm dangerous, and anybody who thinks otherwise is in for a nasty surprise.

Take Teka here. For weeks now, she's been talking about me behind my back. Apparently she thinks I'm "stupid," "arrogant," and "slowing the pace of the entire class." When I came up to her today at school and asked her to meet me, she smirked and said something like "it's about time, slowpoke."

She's gonna wish she hadn't said that.

Teka yawns and stretches her back until I can hear her vertebrae popping. "Okay, Molex," she exclaims, "let me guess. You want me to tutor you."

I'm so flush with anticipation that I don't answer her, only nod. I know that I won't be able to pull it off if I say _anything, _I'm so excited.

Luckily, the dumb bitch is so blinded by her sense of self-importance that she pretty much ignores me. "That's what I thought," she exclaims. "That being said, it isn't going to be an easy job because, you know, you're an _imbecile." _She grins at me, and the moonlight reflects off the lenses of her glasses. "So if you want me to tutor you, there are going to have to be some ground rules.

"One: I know you're rich because your daddy is actually smart, so you're going to be paying me every bit of your allowance until this is over."

I take a step closer to her. She doesn't notice, she's too busy talking.

"Two: you don't tell _anyone _about this. I don't want my reputation to suffer if people know I'm hanging out with you."

I take another step, and blithely she continues on.

"Three: you're my bitch now. You do what I say, when I say it—"

I clench my right hand into a fist and punch her in the face.

It isn't as if I haven't done this before. Still, the way her nose _crunches _under my knuckles, the way warmth spurts from her nostrils and splatters onto my bare skin, is intoxicating. She yelps, more surprised than anything, and stumbles to the ground. Her upper lip is covered in _red, _and her glasses have been knocked askew. She looks up at me with grey eyes suddenly filled with fear. "Molex," she gasps. "Wait—"

I kick her in the stomach.

She gasps again, and curls up onto her side, fingers pressed against her bruised skin. Grinning, I stamp on one of her hands, and she screams as something crunches under my heel. I glance around, but nothing disturbs the stillness. After all, there's nobody here.

Now she's trying to get to her feet. Before she can, I grab a fistful of her hair and drag her over to the massive old hard drive. She tries to brace herself against it, but I slam her head into the side, three times, and her arms go limp. Blood trickles from her scalp and pools in her eye sockets.

"You _bitch," _I snarl, kicking her again. "You thought you could talk about _me, _Molex Scrobble, _behind my back, _and get away with it?" She's sobbing, faintly protesting. Her eyes are wet and snot dribbles from her nostrils along with the blood. I reach into my pocket, and my fingers close around my _coup de grâce. _

The pocket knife shimmers faintly in the moonlight. When Teka sees it, she actually screams and attempts to scramble away, despite her broken hand and probable concussion. I let her drag herself almost into the canal before I walk to her and kick her onto her back. Her whole body is shaking, and the look in her eyes suggests that she still can't believe I'm doing this. The dumb whore.

"M-M-Molex," she whimpers, "please—"

"Shut up, bitch," I whisper, and I fall into a crouch. I am holding the knife loosely in my fingers. I grasp her by the shirt front, and she wails in fear. "_Shut up, _I said," I admonish, and jab her in the solar plexus. She sucks in a startled breath of air and pants violently. No more vocalizations are made.

"This," I tell her, waving the knife in front of her grey eyes, "is because you thought you were better than me. Well now you've learnt your lesson. Nobody is better than Molex Scrobble. _Nobody."_

She tries to scream again, despite her wounded solar plexus, but all she manages is a faint whine. And with that, I drive the knife into her forehead, almost directly between her eyes.

Immediately her eyes fix on some spot far above me and become glassy. A trickle of blood slips down her forehead and drips onto the pavement below. Her tense body goes limp, and she lets out a final sigh.

I look upon the body with satisfaction. "Yeah," I whisper, as I yank the knife from her cooling corpse. A few hard tugs and it comes out, covered in blood and tiny bits of grey matter. "Eat it, bitch."

After a few wipes on Teka's dress, the knife is clean enough to be returned to my pocket. To my right, the canal hisses and bubbles, the fumes as noxious as ever. I take Teka's body in my hands and push, heave, and finally shove it into the canal. It splashes heavily down and I scramble back a few paces to avoid being hit by the backsplash.

In a moment the greenish water sucks her under, and that's it, she's done._ You're never going to talk shit about me again, _I think, satisfied, as I jam my hands into my jacket pockets. _You're finished._

Killing will be harder in the Games, of course. After all, the tributes will know that it's coming, and they'll fight back harder than this bitch did. Some of them I might not even want to kill.

But kill them I will, because I'm going to win the Hunger Games, I _have _to. I might not be the smartest kid in District Three, but I'm the most dangerous, and I have what it takes to win. I've been waiting for my chance to volunteer for three years now, and I've never been more excited to finally take the plunge.

I'm going to win the Hunger Games, and my father is going to be proud of me for the first time in my life.

* * *

><p><strong>Coraline "Cora" Aceane, 17<strong>

**District Two Female**

The gymnasium has been cleared of all equipment, and is empty but for the set of metal bleachers that have been shoved to the very center. This is where we are all sitting, clustered together, arms thrown lazily around each other's shoulders. There is a spirit of camaraderie in the air, which is funny, considering that today is the day that thirty-eight dreams are going to be crushed.

Well, thirty-seven. I already know that I'm not going to be chosen. I've given it some thought, and I'm alright with that. It isn't that I don't want to prove myself (I do, _of course _I do) but in the end I don't suppose I ever wanted to kill other kids, anyway.

Head Trainer Davenport saw that in me, I think. I try to hide it as best I can, but he must know I'm soft. Perhaps there's something in the way I hold myself, or maybe it's just that I'm not as good as the other girls. No matter. There's always next year, I suppose.

The Head Trainer is standing before the forty of us now, pacing back and forth. His shoes squeak against the gymnasium floor. His hair is nearly grey in the harsh light, but he looks by no means old. He is a wiry, lean man, compact but muscular. He looks like a man who knows how to kill.

Which is ironic, considering that he was never a contestant in the Hunger Games himself. He trained and trained, but in the end he was beaten out by a boy half his age, a boy who would die in the Bloodbath of his Games. I don't think Davenport ever forgave himself for that, and he works us all the harder because of it.

To my right sits Kayana, and she is leaning forward on her bench with her hands balled into fists. Kayana will be furiously disappointed if Davenport doesn't name her the female tribute for the 148th Hunger Games. There's not much I can do in that regard, but I lean over and squeeze her shoulder. She jumps for a moment, and relaxes when she realizes it's only me.

"Don't be nervous," I whisper, in an undertone. "You're going to get this. I'm sure of it."

She smiles back at me, but doesn't seem particularly confident. "What about your sister, Cora? She's deadly with a sword. I can barely _lift _the damn things."

The both of us turn to glance curiously at my sister, who is brooding on the bottom tier of the bleachers. Truth be told, I think Caroline probably _is _more qualified to be a contestant in the Hunger Games than Kayana is, but saying so would break my friend's heart. I just smile. "Who, her? She's too much of a grump for Davenport to choose. No, I'm sure it'll be you."

"Definitely," Annaliese pipes up, from the tier below us. "You're the best, Kay! Nobody's in doubt of that."

"I don't know," Damian drawls, from my left. "Caroline is pretty talented."

I shoot him a glare. Damian, despite being my ex-boyfriend, is still a close friend to us all, and the last thing we need right now is him putting a damper on Kayana's spirits. "Damian," I snarl, "would you mind keeping your _misguided and false _opinions to yourself?"

"Yeah!" exclaims Kayana, suddenly energized. "What the fuck, Damian?"

He just shrugs. "Maybe I want it to be Caroline. After all, I don't want to have to kill you in the arena, Kay."

She snorts. "Pssh. As if _you'll _be chosen. We all know it's going to be Braden."

Damian is about to work up a reply to that when Davenport clears his throat and the chatter immediately silences. "Trainees," says Davenport, "shut the hell up."

Immediate, dead silence. "That's better." Davenport swivels until he is facing us, his hands folded neatly behind his back. "Now," he says, "another Reaping is nearly upon us. In one month, two of our finest will volunteer as tributes in the 148th Hunger Games." He pauses to take a breath. "As always, I have had to work with forty of this district's laziest, stupidest, and most insolent brats, but I've done the best I could.

"After this announcement, those of you who were not chosen will remain in this training school for the full month until the Reaping. After that, if you are eighteen, I don't want to see your face in here again. If you are seventeen or younger, you have years to go before I'm done with you, so don't you _dare _fall behind on your training!" He wipes the sweat from his brow with a pallid hand.

"Let's get this over with," he mutters. "This year's female tribute is Caroline Aceane!"

Caroline, from her spot, glances up dully and nods, totally calm, as if she were never in doubt. A flicker of irritation passes over me. _She's so arrogant, _I grumble to myself. At my side, Kayana has gone stiff. Her eyes are huge and hurt. "_Fuck," _she whispers.

"And the male tribute is Braden Ranae!"

"_Shit!" _Damian whispers, while I quickly scan the crowd for Braden. There he is, also nodding his dark-haired head in a bored sort of way. _I guess he really is better than Damian, _I think, disappointed but not surprised. Both of my friends must be feeling like shit right now. Annaliese and I don't particularly care, but it hurts to know how upset they must be feeling.

"That's all I wanted," says Davenport. "You can get the hell out now. Training over." Immediately, Kayana leaps from the bleachers and storms towards the exit of the gym.

"Kay, wait!" Annaliese cries, leaping up and following her, while Damian marches stiffly after then, muttering to himself.

As much as I want to follow, the least I can do is congratulate my sister on her big day. We aren't close, exactly. Or close at all, in any way. We're just too different, and I've always had the feeling that Caroline resents me, probably because, unlike her, I actually have friends. And it's not that I don't want her to have any, because I do, but she just isn't a likable person.

Gracefully I drop from the bleachers and land in front of her. Trainees are streaming towards the exit, but the two of us are arrested under the harsh lights. "So," I tell her, "you must be excited!" I even manage a big smile that I don't feel.

Caroline doesn't make the same effort. "Not really," she says dully. "I knew I would be picked. I'm better than everyone else. Especially you."

_She always has to make it a competition, _I think, inwardly wincing. "Whatever," I snap. "I was just trying to tell you that I was happy for you."

Caroline lets out a monotone, joyless laugh. "You should be," she says. "If you were chosen, you'd die in the arena."

I take a step back. "No, I _wouldn't, _Caroline. What the hell is wrong with you?"

"You would," she says casually. "I can tell. You're _weak."_

She might be right, but there's no way I'm letting her get away with saying that. "Oh, screw you," I growl. "You think you're all that? Believe me, if I'd been picked, I would _kick ass _in the arena. I'd win _easily."_

She laughs again. "I'd love to see that," she exclaims. "What the hell, if you were reaped I wouldn't even volunteer. I'd let you go 'kick ass in the arena.' I'm sure you'd do fine." From the expression on her face, she doubts it.

"Bring it on," I growl. "If I get reaped, you'd _better _not volunteer. I'll show you how it's done." Of course, this is all for show. There's no way I'll get reaped, and even if I do, Caroline won't risk being ostracized for something as silly as a sibling rivalry. I think.

"Fine," Caroline snaps, brushing past me with a toss of her light brown hair, exactly the same as mine. How can we look so similar but be so different? The answer to that question has always eluded me.

I stare at her retreating back, and I have to wonder where everything went so wrong. Is it Caroline's fault, or mine? Is there something I should have done, should have said?

If Caroline dies in that arena, I suppose I'll never find out.

* * *

><p><strong>Harley Rennock, 18<strong>

**District Eight Male**

If I remember correctly, the people of District Eight actually protested when this little park was built. It is located almost directly in the middle of the sprawling factory district, and I've heard time and time again that it is situated _just _so that shipping between the factories becomes nearly impossible. It is a stain on our stained district. Or so they say.

Anyway, I love the place. How could I not love it? On good days I can hear birds singing in the foliage, and I even catch a glimpse of whirling feathers now and again. There are squirrels hiding in the underbrush, and although I have no idea how they migrated all the way from the outskirts of our district to its very center, I am taken with them nonetheless, and sometimes feed them scraps from my lunch when I have a little extra. But most of all, this little park is our special place, where the three of us crawl after a particularly grueling day at school to decompress.

I am sitting with my back pressed against the bark of a tree. The bark tugs at my loose shirt, pulling it just far enough to reveal a strip of pale white stomach. Experimentally, I poke at my skin with my index finger. "I'm too skinny," I announce. "I think I'm too skinny. Oh, no. Oh, _no. _This is why nobody wants to date me."

Callum lets out a _whoosh _of air from between pursed lips. "Oh, yeah," he drawls, scratching the back of his neck. "_That's _the reason, Harley. You've hit the nail on the head this time."

"Not liking the sarcasm," I tell him, dragging my shirt back into place. "Besides, _you'd _date me."

"If I was gay, sure," says Callum, "but I'm not, and neither are you, so there's no use pining for things that will never be."

"I bet that's the reason that nobody wants to date _either _of you," remarks Adina thoughtfully. She twirls a strand of blonde hair around her index finger. "Your bromance is too real. Nobody wants to get in the way."

I turn to look at her, suddenly serious. "You don't actually think that?"

She shrugs. "It's possible."

I spring to my feet, suddenly energized. "Well that's that! Callum, I'm breaking up with you!"

He throws a hand to his heart in mock surprise. "What. Oh noooo."

"It's true." I nod gravely, and a lock of light brown hair falls in front of my eyes. Irritated, I flick it away. "The bromance is over. Done. We're going to have to find some _female companions _to wipe away our heartbreak."

Adina giggles. "I've already told you that there are plenty of girls I know who'd like a taste."

I wave my hand dismissively. "No, but that's not what I mean."

"Oh, _no," _exclaims Callum suddenly, from behind me. "Don't let him keep talking, Adina, he waxes poetic for _hours _about his _one true love—"_

"My one true love," I announce, speaking over him, "is—wait, I don't even _have _a one true love. I was just going to say that I want a girl who genuinely likes me for _me_, and doesn't mind the fact that I'm not all that hot and sometimes I say stupid things. And I _definitely _don't want a girl that's only using me to get into Callum's pants."

"Perish the thought," says Callum, grinning wickedly.

Adina purses her lips. "There are girls like that in the world _somewhere," _she says. "Maybe not in District Eight, but…" She winks, indicating that she's teasing, but now I'm actually thinking about this and I will not be deterred.

"But what if—no, seriously Callum, hear me out—what if there's someone out there for me, but she's in another district? How will I ever meet her? It's not like I can go _visiting _every single district whenever I feel like it."

"Volunteer for the Hunger Games," says Callum. "Maybe you'll get lucky and you'll get the chance to kill her on live TV."

I glower at him. "Not funny, man. I'm trying to be serious here."

"Well that's the risk you take when you try to be serious when I'm around."

"Leave him alone, Callum," says Adina, pausing a moment to lever such a ferocious glare in my friend's direction that it's a miracle he doesn't immediately melt into a quaking puddle. "I think it's sweet that you actually think about this," she continues. "Most of the guys in our year are just obsessed with _getting some _before they graduate."

"So were you, until you got some," says Callum.

"Oh, shut up!" Adina growls, removing her shoe and flinging it at Callum. It hits him on the side of the head and he collapses in the grass with a squeal.

I realize that I've been standing and pacing for nearly ten minutes now, so I collapse back into the grass next to Adina. She is combing her blonde hair with her fingers, and smiles invitingly at me. "Don't listen to Callum," she says. "He's a bitch."

"Oh, I know," I tell her, while Callum faintly protests in the background. "He is my friend, though. He gets some points for that."

"Only _some_?" exclaims Callum, tossing the shoe back towards Adina. "I'm the only one who'll put up with you!"

"You're also a buzzkill, overly sarcastic, and your temper gets us in trouble at school. Well," I amend, "_our _tempers get us into trouble at school." There's not one of us that doesn't flare up now and again, especially when we have to deal with some of the knuckleheads that share classes with us. I can only be patient for so long before I have to let it out.

"Thank you for the glowing assessment of my character," says Callum, getting to his feet and stretching. "Can we go, guys? It's getting late."

"Sure," says Adina, and I get to my feet, take her hand in mine, and pull her into a standing position as well.

"School's almost over," I remind them. "And we're all old enough to start work next year. We might not get many more days to do stuff like this."

"Cue the tears," mutters Callum.

"I'm not gonna cry, jackass!" Nonetheless, I do feel a swelling of emotion in my chest. Abruptly I lean in and grab the two of them for an impromptu hug. Neither of them protests; they've been living with me long enough to get used to my random outbursts of emotion.

"I love you guys," I tell them.

"Oh, Harley, I love you too," says Adina, her words fluttering over my cheekbone.

"Bromance is back on," says Callum, triumphant.

My best friends. I'm not being dramatic; I really _do _love them, as much as if we'd been born together. And I can only hope that work isn't going to come between us, because I wouldn't be able to stand not seeing them every day. They're my family now, and like a family, I want them to be there for me.

But there's no point in saying all this, because they already know. Instead, I stand with them a while longer, as the sky darkens above us.

* * *

><p><strong>Rana Alcina, 17<strong>

**District One Female**

What a stupid, stupid novel.

It's insipid, boring, and totally inaccurate, but it is storming so hard outside that training has been cancelled, and so I have nothing better to do. Perhaps I ought to be outside, forcing myself to endure the weather, but I already passed the "survivalist" unit and I have no desire to do so again. I would have gotten the best marks in that unit, too, but Gemma Martain had already been camping in her backyard for a week before the final test, so she had an unfair advantage from the start.

I pause in my reading for a moment and glance over my shoulder to the window, which rattles after every clap of thunder. It is difficult to discern much of _anything _beyond a maelstrom of grey, but it is enough for me to affirm that I'm making the right choice; that going outside would be insane. _If it storms like this during the Games, _I think, _I will simply take shelter in the Cornucopia, or somewhere else. There's no way I'll go more than a day without shelter, so I shouldn't worry._

Perhaps I am being a bit preemptive, planning for the Games before this year's chosen volunteer has even been announced. As in past years, our trainers wait until the morning of the Reaping to tell us who has been chosen (to hype up drama, I suspect.) But I really have no reason to be concerned. There simply isn't anyone as good as me in the entire training school, and that settles matters.

I turn back to the novel, which is currently nestled in my lap. As I reach for it, my skirt rides up to almost pornographic heights, and I pause for a moment to yank it back into place with my free hand. I have long since learned that short dresses with plunging necklines can help me in _so _many ways, in _so _many places. I consider them a staple, and I will be sorely disappointed if the uniform in the arena is something prudishly conservative.

Idly, I flip the book's pages, which smell oddly of perfume. _Deep Love_, it is called, which honestly sounds more like the kind of filthy magazine half the boys in the district keep under their mattresses than a legitimate romance novel. I suppose I shouldn't expect any better from a Capitolian—at least, with a name like Aelia Fabius, I can only assume she is a Capitolian. The whole lot of them are an egotistical bunch, and not particularly smart to boot.

The thing about _Deep Love _(again, the name is just ridiculous) is that it depicts love as this magical thing that transforms the main character's life into a beautiful rosy fairytale where everything is perfect and she is always happy. And when the main character and her love interest finally share a night together, it is beautiful and tender and they are so _very much in love—_

The whole book is trollop, really.

The funniest part is the way this Aelia woman describes the man—honestly, has she ever _met _one before? The man is clever, intuitive, and caters to the woman's every whim. I actually snorted out loud when I read that part. _They must raise men differently in the Capitol, _I thought, _because those aren't the men I know._

The men I know are only interested in one thing, and once their minds have been set, they don't think at all. They become walking, talking automatons, and if I lean over at _just _the right angle to give them a preview of what they _might _just get their hands on if they will only do me a favor—well, the rest is history.

I'm even slightly hypocritical—oftentimes I use men for the same reason they use me. Temporary companionship is, as the name suggests, temporary, but it's better than no companionship at all.

I shake my head very slightly, and my blonde curls bounce gently in a sudden draft. _I should be doing something else, _I think, but nothing comes to mind. After all, I used up the last of the morphling three weeks ago, and even if I hadn't, the marks on my forearms are beginning to become obvious. I need to tone it down if I want to look my best during the Games.

From one of the rooms down the hall there is a sudden crash. I wince, and my brow begins to furrow. I know that sound, oh, how well I know that sound. I consider getting up and moving, but what are the odds that he'll be sober enough to stand?

A moment later, though, the door to my father's bedroom creaks open. It's too late for me to go scampering off now, so I skip to a random page in the book, bite my lip as if in concentration, and begin to read.

_… She fell against his chest, and his warmth was something tangible and comforting. She felt it wrap around her, a blanket in its own right, and she felt safer than she'd felt in a long, long time…_

I can hear him shuffling into the hallway, which is where I am sitting curled up in the most comfortable chair in the house, by the old grandfather clock that used to chime on the hour but has long since given up that fight.

_ "Don't be afraid," said Ajay. "I haven't been there for you in the past, but I swear to you that I'll be there from now until I die. Until I _die, _Merrin, I'll be there."_

My father's shuffling footsteps jerk to an awkward halt. "What the hell are you doin'?" he snaps, his words slurred.

My green eyes flick up from the page. "Reading." I am clutching at the book more tightly than is necessary.

"The _fuck _aren't you trainin' fer?" He sways unsteadily, but I know that his lack of balance does not mean he is not dangerous. If anything, this is when he is at his worst.

I point towards the window. "They cancelled training. It's raining too hard."

Suspicious, my father squints at the window. "Thas _bullshit," _he decides finally. His breath stinks of alcohol. "You ged out there righ' now and start _trainin'."_

My breath catches in my throat. "I'm not going out there," I tell him cautiously. "It's dangerous. I'll get sick."

His nostrils flare, and something sparks in his piggy eyes. "_Dangerous? _Thas the point of the fuckin' _Games, _sweetheart, is that it's _dangerous." _He lurches forward, and before I can wriggle away he has my forearm in a vicelike grip. His fingers grip hard enough to leave bruises. "You think you can just do _whatever _you want? I said to ged out there and you're gonna _ged out there!" _With a heave and a grunt, he yanks me out of the chair. As soon as his fingers release my arm I twist away from him and manage to land on my feet, arms splayed for balance. My skin throbs where his nails dug into it.

"Dad," I tell him, "you're being ridiculous. You're drunk."

"_Fuck _you!" he roars, and I know that whatever I say isn't going to change anything. "That doesn't _fucking _matter!" He advances, smacking his fist into his palm. "Yer lucky I'm not takin' out the _belt, _you brat—"

Without warning, he lunges. I dance away, but have forgotten that the door is almost directly behind me. I crack my head against the wood, and stars dance in front of my eyes. By the time the white spots in my vision fade, my father has grasped my shoulder and thrown me to the floor. I cry out as my palms connect with the ground, the skin scraping away.

He glares down at me balefully. "Yer nothin' but a disrespecting _bitch," _he snarls, and kicks my leg. It's a clumsy kick, and I barely feel it. I want to get up and _fight back_—but I can't. How can I? I don't know how to fight—I know how to _kill. _And he's my father.

Father or not, he works up a mouthful of saliva and spits on me. "And ya dress like a _whore," _he snarls, as a parting blow, before lurching off to the kitchen, probably to find another bottle of tequila.

I stay a moment on the floor, staring after his retreating form. Then I retrieve my book from the corner, wipe the spit from my bare leg, and return to my chair. My shoulder and shin are aching, but I ignore the pain.

After all, I'm used to it.


	5. We the Living

**Hi there, friends! Here's part two of the Reapings. Hope you enjoy our next six characters!**

* * *

><p><em>Morning of Reapings<em>

* * *

><p><strong>Taylor Warwick, 16<strong>

**District Seven Female**

It doesn't really matter that nobody is here. In fact, that only makes the experience better. I love people, I really do, but my skin crawls and prickles when I imagine them watching me. Hannah tells me that paranoia is a great help when it comes to winning the Games, and seeing as she's won the Games, I'm inclined to believe her.

The training gym is nowhere near the standards that Districts One, Two, and Four have set. Hannah, who has visited each and every one of these gyms, is quick to remind me that they have better equipment, more trainers, and a great deal more funding from Capitol sponsors. _"We get what we can get," _she tells me, _"but you're gonna be a hell of a lot more prepared than the poor bastards from the outer districts, and don't you forget it."_

Still, when I imagine the facilities that the Pack districts have, my heart sinks a little bit. The District Seven gym is nothing major. There are weapons, of course, but not many of them, and the gym itself is not large. There is no pool, there are no extra facilities, and the simplest things are always falling into disrepair. The lights, for example, are constantly flickering, casting everything into shadow before revealing the world in a haze of brightness once again.

I tell myself that I'm all the more prepared because of it. _I don't need fancy equipment to win. If anything, I'll be better equipped to survive. _I don't know if the reassurances are hollow or if I'm really onto something here, but it's too late to look back.

My favorite sword is hanging by itself on the weapons rack. It is scarred and dented from years of abuse, and as I pluck it from the wall the weight of it seems to vanish, as though the sword has become an extension of my arm. Experimentally I give it a few swings, and marvel at the way it cuts through the air. Efficient. Deadly.

Hannah calls it a katana, and though I'll admit all swords seem alike to me, I can always tell a katana apart from the other swords when I watch the Games. I know, instinctively, that the katana is much lighter, easier to handle—a _better _weapon that what the Pack tributes usually go for.

Katana in hand, I march over to the training gym's single dummy. Because the dummy is so often brutalized, it has become a rule to attempt to defeat it by physically damaging it as little as possible. This rule started out as an excuse to avoid having to buy dummies over and over again, but eventually it grew into a way to test control. _"Might not seem like it, but control's important," _Hannah reminds me, very often. _"It's how I won my Games, after all."_

It _is _how Hannah won her Games. She had total dominance over her alliance. Apparently people in the Capitol are still wondering, even today, how she managed to convince each and every one of her allies to die for her, but she isn't telling.

_Control, _I think, and make an effort to even my breathing. I hold the hilt of the katana in both hands and raise it out in front of me. The instrument barely moves as I level it towards the dummy's battered neck. If the dummy were a person, this is where it would be whimpering and crying, begging me for mercy. It is thankfully silent.

Very gently, I press the blade against the spot that bears a vague resemblance to a neck. A single breath could cut open flesh, if the dummy could breathe, but it remains motionless on its stand.

_Control, _I remind myself. _Don't cut up too much. Control._

My body whirls before my mind has fully caught up. I exist only in the moment, without reason or conscience. I am motion, and as I push myself forward and feel the tip of my katana digging into the tough fabric that encases the dummy's innards, I don't think of anything but ensuring the dummy's non-survival.

I encounter resistance and am unable to continue stabbing the dummy. I pause for a moment and survey my handiwork. The blade has been driven through the dummy's soft armpit into its chest. A fatal, clean blow. I yank the katana free and globs of stuffing drip from the wound onto the waxed floor below.

"We're gonna have to get a new one of those," a voice sighs, from behind me.

Instinct takes over. I twist immediately to protect my back, jabbing the katana in front of me as a warning. I catch the slightest of glimpses of an exposed jugular and press the very tip of my blade against it, growling slightly as I do so.

"Hello to you too, hon," says Hannah, entirely unperturbed despite the deadly weapon at her throat. "Now put the fuckin' sword down before I ram it up your ass."

"I'm sorry!" I exclaim immediately, pulling the sword away from her dark skin. I'm not sorry, though—in the Games, a quick reaction like that could save my life.

Gingerly, Hannah rubs at the side of her neck. "Yeah, yeah," she says. "Try not to fillet me in the future and we'll be fine." Her hands go to her hips. "Now, what are you _doing _here, Taylor Warwick? You're aware that the Reapings are in four hours, eh?"

"I know." I glance back towards the dummy. "I just felt like practicing."

"You just felt like wearing yourself out before the Games, you mean." She narrows her eyes at me. "You should be resting. Saving your strength. The Games are going to take everything you have in you and _then _some, so you shouldn't be wasting yourself here."

_She wants me to be unprepared before the Games! _I think, internally panicking for a brief moment before reminding myself that my paranoia is sometimes a bit _too _forceful. _No. That doesn't make sense. She's actually looking out for me._

Hannah seems to understand my thinking process, at least to a certain extent. "I want you at your best today," she says. "This is important. You need to look great for sponsors, because believe you me, they fuckin' matter, and _we _need to look great too."

"We?"

"Our training school, Taylor!" Hannah waves her hands impatiently. "We've got nothin' on the Pack training schools, I know, and we're the only outer district that even bothers with a training school. That's why we have to look good. Half the Victors from District Seven weren't even graduates, and I aim to change that. I'm looking for at least one volunteer a year in the future. At the moment we can barely handle one volunteer every five years."

"It might be better this way. Whoever the male tribute is, I won't have a problem… I mean, I won't have to worry about him as competition. He won't be accepted into the Pack, and I probably will be."

"_Probably," _says Hannah forcefully. "I was, and so were most of the other graduates, but we might get a fickle Pack this year. You're gonna be ready for anything, you understand?"

"Yes ma'am."

She nods her head, grudgingly approving of me. "Then let's see that strike again," she exclaims.

I might not be the strongest tribute District Seven has ever seen, but I'd like to think that at least, no matter what, I will be in control. When the Games fall to pieces around the other tributes, I will have the upper hand.

For District Seven's honor, and for the betterment of my family name, I am going to win these Games.

* * *

><p><strong>Garrett Grady, 18<strong>

**District Nine Male**

The bar is dingy, crowded, and so loud that I can barely hear myself think. That's just as well; it's why I came here, after all. To get the nagging paranoia out of my mind.

I won't get reaped. I've survived the Reapings for _seven goddamned years _without incident. I've taken out enough tesserae to feed myself and then some, and still I have not been reaped. What are the chances now? I'll admit that my odds are the worst they've ever been, but they're still not _bad, _by any means. I know of kids who have been taking enough tesserae to feed their entire fucking families, and they haven't been reaped either.

If they are reaped, though, I'll have no sympathy for them. Taking out tesserae for a full family—that's fucking retarded. It's like these kids _want _to die. And they always do. Since the reinstating of the Hunger Games, District Nine has had one Victor, _one. _If I'm reaped (but I won't be) I aim to change that.

I take a sip of beer and nearly spit it out onto the bar. "Pisswater," I growl, nudging Baxter with my shoulder. "This is the goddamn shittiest beer I've ever tasted."

Baxter shrugs, taking another swig. "Hey, man, as long as it's gonna get me plastered before the Reapings, I'm all for it." He grins at me with crooked teeth. "That's what we came here for, right?"

I grunt the affirmative and take another sip. It really _is _shitty beer, but the pricks that own this place know that on the morning before the Reapings, people will pay for pretty much anything.

To my right, Carter is swaying precariously in his chair. He's already shitfaced drunk, and I take a moment to watch him. He has a stupid little smirk on his face, and is mumbling something to himself. I lean in a bit closer to listen, and I realize that he's singing an old nursery rhyme that District Nine kids sometimes sing to each other on this particular day. _"Twenny-four little tribbies, at the start of the spree, one falls off his plate, and BOOM twenny-three."_

I grimace. "Carter, shut up."

He ignores me, still swaying, still singing. _"Twenny-three little tribbies, runnin' fer supplies, one gets stabbed and BOOM she dies."_

I decide that Carter's singing, while annoying, isn't worth a bar fight on this particular morning. I run a hand through my short blonde hair, my fingernails scraping my scalp. I'm still nothing close to shitfaced. This has got to be the worst pre-Reapings party in all of Panem.

The beer, or whatever the hell it is, isn't working, and I sling it halfway down the bar in frustration. "Hey! Wheaton!" I bang both fists onto the bar to get his attention. The grizzled barkeep is currently pretending to wipe down a glass with a filthy dishrag, probably trying to avoid doing actual work, the old bastard. Reluctantly, he sidles down the bar towards me, finally looming over Carter, Baxter and me with an irritated grimace.

"What?" he snaps. "I'm workin,' boy."

I am not intimidated. "Does it look like I give a damn, old man? Are you seeing something that makes you think I give a damn?"

He folds his skinny arms across his chest. "_What. Do. You. Want."_

"I'll have something stronger than whatever the hell it is you're giving everybody else." He fixes me with a steely glare and I rise up from my stool, leaning across the bar until he finally shies away. "_Now," _I tell him, my voice suddenly soft, deadly.

He sneers, but turns away to get me my drink, as ordered. Satisfied, I plunk myself back down in the stool and turn to Baxter, who is currently bargaining with another group of men a bit further down the bar. "No," he says, waving his hands emphatically, "I'm _tellin' _you they'll both be eighteen."

"No fuckin' way," says one of the men. "Ain't no way that's gonna happen. What're the odds?"

"They're just _great," _says Baxter, determined. "I'll bet you for it. _Eighty credits!"_

Not a colossal amount of money, but for laborers like us every bit counts. _Fucking moron, _I think, but I don't stop him as he and the man spit and shake to seal the deal. If he wants to throw his money away, fine. He can fend for himself.

From behind the bar, Wheaton clears his throat. "Brought you your _special brew," _he growls, slamming a thick glass down in front of me. Foam froths over the lip of the glass, and the drink inside is dark and has a heady, powerful smell. I take the glass in one hand and take a sip. Still not the best swill I've ever had, but it'll get the fucking job done, at least.

"Hey." Wheaton remains where he was standing, opposite me behind the bar. "You do me a favor, boy."

I raise an eyebrow. "No."

He glowers. "You don't even know what the favor is—"

"I don't do _favors."_

"Fuckin' piece of—" He collects himself, wringing his gnarled hands together. "Look. Yer friend there is making a fuckin' mess of my bar. Just get him outside and the rest of your drinks are on the house."

I glance to my right. Carter is indeed making a mess of the bar; his lips and chin are covered in saliva, most of which is making its way onto the splintered wood. He is still singing that damned song, very quietly to himself. _"Eleven little tribbies, gettin' real thin, one stops movin' and BOOM, there are ten."_

"Deal," I tell Wheaton, if only to rid myself of Carter and his horrible singing. He barely reacts when I get a hand around his chest and only grunts faintly as I heave him over my shoulder. Carter is a big man, six feet tall and at least two hundred pounds of muscle, but I heave him up as easily as I would a particularly large bag of flour.

I make my way through the bar, not really bothering to correct myself when Carter's feet bang into tables or disturb drinks. My friend mumbles and tugs on my shirt, like a child. It's pathetic. I should never let Carter drink this much.

Outside the bar, the air is cool and crisp and smells faintly of chaff. We're far enough away from the factory district that the surrounding area is flat for miles, the only sight to see being the rolling fields of wheat and the trolley lines that move workers around the district. This little shack is hardly in an opportune place, but people still migrate here, my friends and I being a choice sampling of those people.

I move far enough away from the door that he won't be trampled before heaving Carter onto the ground. He finally reacts, letting out a startled cry as his shirt rides up to his abdomen. "Garrett?" he exclaims, and twists onto his side as he begins to retch. I roll my eyes and make for the door. "No, Garrett, wait—" The din of the bar covers his words, and the door closes behind me before I can make out anything more.

My drink and spot are both waiting for me when I get back. _Time to finish what I started, _I decide, and drain the glass in one gulp. Lightheaded, I signal for Wheaton to bring me another. I'll have a bitch of a hangover tomorrow, but it'll be worth it.

After all, it's not every day a man survives his last Reapings.

* * *

><p><strong>Venator Rhodes, 18<strong>

**District Four Male**

The four of them sit behind a long table, bathed in shadow so that their faces are almost indistinct. Nevertheless, I know exactly who they are. Head Trainer Delvie Rannon. Victors Vess Watson, Wayve Moriarty, and Padel Fulton. Rannon is leaning forward, resting her weight on her elbows. The other three recline in their chairs, looking down on us from their high seats.

Demetri Pascal is standing to my right. Eighteen years old, like me. He's been training for this since he was eleven, like me. Only one of us will be allowed to volunteer for the Games. After all these years and all this effort, only one can win this fight.

And it will be me.

There is no way around it. Admittedly, Pascal scored better on certain tests determining our temperaments. But beyond that, he is weak where I am strong. He snivels where I bare my teeth in courage. He breaks, and I do the breaking.

The chosen volunteer will be _me._

Rannon clears her throat. The sound echoes through the empty gym. Pascal gives a little shiver when he hears it, and I smirk in spite of myself. _Oh, he is pathetically weak, _I muse. _How can they even be considering him?_

"Potential volunteers," she says coolly. "You two have been chosen out of District Four's elite males. Demetri Pascal, please step forward."

He does so. He stands tall, and firm. I imagine breaking him over my knee, and I find myself in a state of utter calm, basking in his weakness.

"Demetri," says Rannon. "Out of every male trainee enrolled in this academy, you have proven yourself the cleverest, the calmest, and possibly the smartest tribute District Four has ever seen. You have shown, time and time again, that you are able to keep a level head during a fight. All of these traits point towards your being a potential Victor.

"Venator Rhodes," she continues, "please step forward."

I do so. My body swells with energy.

"Venator," says Rannon. "You are, without a doubt, the most brutal male trainee currently enrolled here. You are incredibly dangerous and you possess the correct mentality in regards to killing other children in order to attain victory. You are the strongest, and the best killer, and you are unafraid to take what you believe you deserve.

"Now I ask you, trainees: which of you _deserves_ to be allowed into the Games?"

This is the most foolish of all the tests I have had to undertake. The final test; the test of words and will. Who can argue his case better? Who can prove that he deserves the spot more?

True to form, Pascal jumps in first. "Me," he says, immediately. "I've been training hard for seven years now. There's nobody here that is better with a spear than I am."

I snort. "That doesn't mean anything. I don't have to be better with a spear. If I were facing you in the arena, I would be wielding a sword, and you would be dead within minutes."

Pascal shakes his shaggy head. "Wrong," he exclaims. "I would never face you head on, Venator, I'm not a fool. I would build a trap for you, and then I would let it rip you to pieces."

Irritation bubbles up within me. "_Coward," _I hiss. "That's no way to win the Games, Pascal. You don't deserve to win if you gain victory in such an underhanded way."

From the table, I can see that Wayve Moriarty is nodding, clearly swayed by my point of view. Our other judges remain impassive.

Pascal takes a step towards me. "It doesn't matter _how_ you win the Games," he exclaims, "it only matters if you _win. _Do you think the Capitol will mind that I didn't beat every single tribute to death with my fists like you're clearly planning on doing? No, they'll be entertained by seeing something new. They want someone with _intelligence, _not a mindless brute like you."

I laugh, a short booming laugh that visibly affects Pascal. "Mindless? I'm not mindless, you fucking moron. Do you think I haven't been watching you?" He pales slightly. "Demetri Pascal," I exclaim, "you are afraid of dying in the arena. You've confessed as much to your closer friends—"

"How do you—?"

"I'm _not finished,_" I growl, and he immediately falls silent. "You are afraid of death. Your only real talent lies in trap-making, and while you are proficient with a spear, you are by no means the best fighter in this academy. You don't even come close to me, and you have been beaten no less than _twelve _times in the past six months, once by a girl _fourteen years old._" Pascal winces. "Lastly," I continue, "you have mentioned at least once that you don't think you will enjoy killing. How the _fuck _do you expect to be able to win if you can't take pride in what you do?"

For a long moment, Pascal is silent. He licks his chapped lips. "I won't enjoy it," he admits, while Wayve Moriarty shakes his head and Head Trainer Rannon crosses her arms. "But that doesn't mean I won't _respect it. _And I sure as hell won't get off on it like you will!" He moves towards me, stabbing at me with his pointer finger. "You are a _monster, _Venator, and everybody in this room knows it! You beat the piss out of three other kids a few years back because of what, a stolen spear? You're _insane." _He says the last part with a shudder. "If you go into that arena, your allies will be falling over themselves to murder you!" As he finishes, he stumbles into my range, so close that I can hear his ragged breathing.

"Oh, fuck this," I exclaim, and grab him by the lapel.

He actually screams as my fingers brush against his throat. "Help—_help!" _and Vess Watson moves to leap from her chair, but the Head Trainer holds up an arm, signaling that everyone is to remain where they are. _She's impressed, _I think, pleased, and dash Pascal to the floor.

His arms wave clumsily as he attempts to bat me off. One if his fingernails nearly jabs my eye, so I grab both of his arms and pin them to the ground. "What are you people _doing?" _Pascal screams, his voice reedy with panic. "He's going to _kill me!"_

"I'm not," I tell him, and punch him in the face.

He moans, startled. "Venator—"

I punch him again.

My knuckles are red with Pascal's blood. He shivers, trying to buck me off, and I punch him again. I can hear the tiniest cracking sound as one of his teeth comes loose. His eyes are purple with bruised skin, and he squints blearily in my direction. Every time he breathes, the air whistles in and out of his bloody nostrils.

Underneath me, Pascal goes still. I turn to look at my judges, and I raise my bloody fist. "Demetri Pascal is weak," I tell them. "In the arena, he would be betrayed and killed almost immediately. I will prove to the Pack that I am too formidable an opponent for such underhanded tricks. If you still believe that Pascal is the correct choice," I add, "look on him now and see what I've done to him. If you choose Demetri Pascal, I will have no choice. I will have to kill him, and then I will be the only choice left."

Silence from the judges. Vess Watson is shaking her head, obviously disturbed, but Padel Fulton, Wayve Moriarty, and Head Trainer Rannon seem to have been swayed. "I choose Venator," says Wayve immediately.

"Venator, I suppose," sighs Padel, twirling a lock of dark brown hair around one of her fingers.

"Demetri," hisses Vess, glaring at me. "And I suggest we throw this sack of shit to the Peacekeepers while we're at it."

It is the moment of truth. If Rannon chooses me, there is nothing Vess can do. If Rannon chooses Pascal, then I will twist his neck right here, and suffer the consequences.

"Congratulations, Venator Rhodes," says Delvie Rannon. "You are the chosen volunteer for the 148th Hunger Games."

It is done. I slide off Pascal's still form, bow formally to the judges, and move to make my exit. "One more thing," says Rannon, and I pause and glance back over my shoulder. "After intense deliberation during the assessments of the female trainees this morning," Rannon tells me, "we have ultimately decided to bar _both _of our choices from volunteering. This means that whoever is reaped will be your district partner. Whoever she is, assess her well. If she has potential, invite her to join the Pack. You will need as many allies as you can get."

My district partner will have been reaped. I mull this over in my head. Ultimately, all it means is that when the time comes she'll die easier than the others.

"Understood," I tell the judges, and I make my way towards the exit, and towards my eventual victory.

* * *

><p><strong>Jace Azure, 14<strong>

**District Five Male**

The money is clutched in my slightly sweaty fist. This is a Reapings tradition and I try to let the joy of it erase my worries, but it's not the same as it was the last two years. My parents, after all, aren't with me. And even if it _was _the same as the last two years, I'd probably still be terrified. It's a big day, after all, and I'm not silly enough to believe that there's _no chance _that the name drawn out of that bowl will be mine.

Still, the promise of candy does help settle my roiling stomach somewhat. I don't have much of a sweet tooth, but I rarely get to buy _as much candy as I want _and thus today is a special occasion. I try to tell myself that the _candy _is the reason this day is so auspicious, but I'm not fooling anyone.

The candy store is open this morning, mainly because the owners probably don't have the heart to close it for what might be someone's last trip. My throat is suddenly bone-dry, and I swallow a few times to moisten it. I don't want to think about it, but I can't help it. The thought keeps creeping up, unbidden, every time I close my eyes.

I don't want to be reaped. But even if I'm not, _somebody _will be. And the odds are pretty good that the kid who's reaped is going to die.

I shake my head slightly to clear my thoughts. I've been lingering outside the shop window for nearly ten minutes now. Perhaps I was subconsciously waiting for my parents to show up so we could go in together, but Mom is busy with work and Dad has to get the lawn tidied in case any camera crews wander by, so I'm on my own this time.

With a deep breath to bolster my resolve, I shoulder open the door. A little bell lets out a warning tinkle somewhere above my head, and the two people in the room glance up at the sound. There is the woman behind the counter holding an opaque plastic bag where the candy ought to go. And there is a boy, perhaps a year younger than me, staring in my direction with a slightly furrowed brow. _He looks familiar, _I think. _Maybe we go to school together?_

"Hello!" exclaims the old woman from behind the counter. "Good morning!"

I manage a faint smile. "Hi," I exclaim, rubbing the back of my neck. "Good morning."

"You must be here for some candy, young man!"

"Yes." I nod. "Yes, please."

She motions for me to approach the counter, which I do. The boy standing next to me stares with an open curiosity, which makes me uncomfortable. I doubt it shows on my features, though. I do my best to keep things like that internalized, and I think I'm doing a good job of it.

"Do you have any preferences?" the old woman exclaims, and I rattle off a list of the candy I had last year. When I get to "lemon suckers," she frowns slightly, and glances over her shoulder. "Oh, hang on for a few moments, dear," she exclaims, "I think I left a box of those in the back."

"Oh!" I exclaim. "If it's a bother, please don't go—"

"No, no," she says, waving her hands, "I was going to head into the back anyway, for Carson's fudge swirls." She makes for the door behind the counter. "It'll only be a minute!" she exclaims, her voice quickly receding.

Now it is just me and the boy, whose name is Carson, it seems. I clear my throat and glance at my shoes. He seems nice enough—but I never know how to start a conversation, which means I never actually do start conversations.

But it seems that Carson has a mind to start talking regardless. "Hi," he says, and one of his legs slips behind the other. "You're—uhh—you're Jace, right?"

I blink. "Yeah," I exclaim. I immediately want to ask him how he knows who I am—the fact that he does makes me kind of uncomfortable—but instead I give him a small smile. "You're Carson, right?"

"Yeah." He seems a bit pleased that I remembered his name. "I just wanted to talk to you," he blurts, glancing around the shop as if to make sure that no one is listening. "You're friends with my brother. Micah."

My smile slips a bit. Micah. Well, I _was _friends with him—but Micah made it pretty clear that he wasn't interested in continuing our friendship, after I told him.

But there's no reason for me to tell Carson that. "Yeah," I exclaim, feeling something ache dully in my chest. "I'm friends with Micah."

"Cool." An awkward pause. "That's how I know you, anyway."

"Ah." Another awkward pause. "Well, it's nice to meet Micah's younger brother, finally!" We both laugh, slightly nervous little chuckles that don't last for very long.

Carson's eyes keep darting around, as if there's something he wants to tell me but he's afraid, and that makes me slightly nervous myself. I want to ask him what's wrong, but the words dry up on my tongue. _It's not my place. I'll make a scene. _Rationales that always hold me back.

"Almost there, boys!" This comes from somewhere beyond the showroom; clearly, the old woman is almost done hunting for the correct boxes. I feel another pang of guilt that she had to do that in the first place. I'm tempted to go find her and give her a hand, despite my slim frame, when Carson lunges forward and grabs me by the wrist.

I'm so shocked that I don't say anything for a moment. "Um," I manage finally. "Carson? What's going on?"

"Listen," he says breathlessly. "Micah said you were… like me. He said you didn't like girls. Is that true?"

My eyebrows jerk towards my hairline. It _is _true, of course it's true. It's why we stopped being friends, isn't it? But Carson wouldn't know that.

"It's true," I exclaim, because it isn't a secret anymore and it's something he needs to hear. "Why—?"

His words tumble over one another in a veritable waterfall of sound. "Well I've kind of liked you for like a really long time and this is the first time we've ever been alone together and I thought it was the only chance I'd ever get to tell you and—aah!" His monologue trails off into a squeak as the old woman bustles back into the room, balancing a monolithic pile of boxes in both of her arms.

She manages to dump the boxes onto the counter. "Well now," she starts, and then stops. "What's wrong?"

I flinch. I imagine that my cheeks are flaming right about now, and Carson is staring ashamedly at his shoes. But we can't just ignore her, so I bravely lift my head. "Nothing!" I exclaim, too brightly. "We were just talking."

"Ah," she says, knowingly. My cheeks get hotter.

Paying for our candy is a fumbling affair. I keep dropping the money, and twice Carson and I accidentally brush the backs of our hands together as we attempt to give the old woman our change. Finally I manage to pay the correct amount for my bag. I make for the door, but some instinct stops me at the threshold. I find myself waiting for Carson's transaction to be completed too. When he's finished, I wish the old lady a happy Reapings (I've been told it's patriotic) and we leave the store in silence.

We don't get very far, though. Carson stops almost directly outside the window, and I come to a halt as well. "Listen," he says, "I know that was really awkward and I'm sorry but it won't happen again. I won't bother you anymore." Dejected, he turns to walk away.

Something surges up within me and before I know what I'm doing I reach out and grasp him by the shoulder. He turns back, eyes suddenly flaring in a hopeful sort of way. "Umm," I manage. "Maybe—after the Reapings—we could go somewhere to talk? Just so we can—ahh—get to know each other a little bit better." My cheeks and the tips of my ears are now a furious, brilliant scarlet.

Carson's smile is the prettiest thing I've ever seen. "It's a date," he exclaims, and then his eyes widen. "Err, I mean—"

"It's a date," I tell him, before he ties his tongue in knots, the way he's carrying on. Now he's blushing too, and he's still blushing when he gives my hand a sudden squeeze and hurries away in the direction of his house.

Inside of me, I can feel an odd sort of emotion bubbling up and dancing and stamping down my fear of being reaped. _He likes me, _I think, wondering at the whole situation. _He _likes _me. _A smile flickers across my face, and I run my fingertips over my cheekbones absentmindedly, candy almost entirely forgotten.

Suddenly, my parents' inability to come with me today doesn't seem like such a bad thing.

* * *

><p><strong>Miles Greenery, 15<strong>

**District Seven Male**

This should be one of the highest points of my day. And I'll admit that it _does _feel pretty good, to be running so quickly that the air whips my brown hair into a frenzy. The message from Mayor Miller to the foreman of the Baynes and Sons lumberyard is safely folded in my pocket, to be delivered promptly and with discretion. I'm a fast runner, and I would _never _read something that wasn't addressed to me, so I make a good messenger on both counts!

But being alone does something to me. My thoughts are heightened and dance along a dangerous little edge. Being alone with myself is a strange, unwelcome feeling. It's just that I spend so much time with other people that I hardly know how to spend time with myself.

It doesn't help that I'm alone on _this _particular morning. I shouldn't even be working, technically, but when Mayor Miller phoned our house and asked for my help, I jumped out of bed and started pulling on clothes without a second thought. If she trusted me with this and I let her down, I wouldn't deserve to be her messenger of choice.

Anyway, running helps get my mind off what is to come. I can't _totally _ignore what I know is going to happen later today, but it isn't consuming me. Still, the thought remains that this year, for the first time since Vale Greengate died in the 143rd Games, a trained volunteer will be ascending the stage.

I don't know if it's meant to be a secret or not, but the word got out that Taylor Warwick was planning on volunteering regardless. Even thinking about her makes something bubble unpleasantly in my stomach. I don't consider myself someone who has the capacity to _hate, _but I strongly dislike the idea of someone making the choice to head into the Games and to murder other children. Not everyone in District Seven agrees. Hell, my dad made me and my friends practice axe-chucking in the backyard, on the off chance that one of us were reaped, but that's different. We might be a little more prepared than other kids, but we would never go into the Games for glory or honor or riches or whatever it is the volunteers are after.

I turn a sharp corner, legs pumping easily and thoughtlessly. I'm nearly halfway to the lumberyard. Once Mayor Miller's letter is safely in the foreman's hands, I am going to head straight home and take a shower. It never hurts to look nice for the Reapings. Just in case.

Another corner looms ahead, and I make the turn easily, just slightly out of breath now. The sun beats down onto my back, but lightly, in a pleasant sort of way. The air smells like pine needles, like home. Someone is crying.

My feet slow. _Someone is crying. _

The sound is coming from a block maybe two or three away from mine. Curiously I begin to jog towards the noise, and as I draw closer I recognize the ugly murmur of cruel laughter. I speed up, my feet slapping against the hard-packed earth. "Hey!" I call, to precede my arrival. Maybe that will be enough to scare them away.

It isn't, though. I charge onto the block and take in the three older boys with a sudden surge of optimism. _That's alright. I can do this. _Pressed against the side of one of the huge processing buildings is a skinny boy who can't be older than ten. His dark cheeks are stained with tears, and his eyes are huge behind his glasses.

"Hey," I say again, slowing to a stop. "What are you guys doing? What's going on here?"

The boy closest to me sneers. "Just wanted to see if this little runt had any credits on him," he says casually. "Reapings today, son, and we've got bets to make."

I furrow my brow. "Bets? You're _betting _on people's lives?"

"Hell yeah we are!" exclaims the rat-faced boy standing closest to the child. "Not like they're ever gonna know, eh? They're probably gonna die."

"Yeah," says the first boy, "that Taylor bitch is gonna kill her district partner for sure. And then she's gonna win and come back home and everyone's gonna hate her." He grins, revealing a mouth full of crooked teeth. "That's what I'm bettin' on, anyway."

"Say," says the rat-faced boy, drawing away from the child cowering against the wall. "I don't suppose _you've _got any credits we could borrow, huh? Think of it as… an investment."

I blink several times. _Eh… maybe I _can't _take all three of these guys. _They're older than me, probably eighteen or nineteen each and I don't exactly have a hand axe around. Even if I did, it's not like I would _use _it. I think that, if I try to fight these guys, I'm going to end up with a concussion for my troubles.

So instead, I grab the hand of the frightened child, and run.

He's slow and stumbling by my side but I put on a burst of speed and clutch at his fingers so he doesn't fall behind and get grabbed again. He makes the effort, pumping his little legs, and together we fly across the road, making for the lumberyard. The bullies howl after us, lunging and grabbing, but I'm _much _faster, a veritable wind compared to them, and even with the kid by my side it isn't long before we've left them in the dust.

I slow to a stop, letting go of the boy's sticking hand. He immediately doubles over, clutching his knees and panting heavily. His face is still streaked with tears and his glasses are smudged, but he seems mostly alright.

With a deep, steadying breath, I clap him on the shoulder. He looks a bit surprised at the contact but manages to give me a watery smile. "Nice one!" I tell him. "We went so fast they couldn't even keep up! You're a pretty great runner, kiddo."

He wriggles bashfully. "Not really," he exclaims. "Otherwise I woulda gotten away the first time." His face turns sad. "They're so mean," he mutters. "I was just going home and they stopped me and said I _had _to give them my credits even though I didn't want to and I was really scared." He digs at the ground with his shoe.

"Well," I tell him, "you did an awesome job escaping with me! What's your name, kiddo?"

"Levi," he exclaims, looking up at me with shining eyes.

"Hey, Levi, I'm Miles. What do you say I escort you home so your parents aren't worried? On the way we can get to know each other, so if anybody ever bothers you again I can come find you and make them stop!"

Maybe it's stupid to promise a thing like that to a kid, but he's so small and clearly in awe of me that I just can't help myself. Besides, in the heat of the moment I feel like I can do anything, even force a bully or two to leave the perfect victim alone.

Escorting Levi home will make me a bit late in delivering the foreman's letter, but I know Mayor Miller would understand. I put my hand on Levi's shoulder protectively, and together we start off on the way to his house. It isn't long before he's chattering excitedly, and I smile and let him tell me all about the trials of school life.

The thoughts of the Reapings are almost completely gone. It's a beautiful day, I'm no longer alone, and what are the odds that I'll be picked, anyway? This is just another day, and there's no point moping about and letting it go to waste.

No reason to fear. I'll be _fine. _I always am.

* * *

><p><strong>Luther Davenport, 18<strong>

**District Six Male**

I make the decision, and the moment I do I _feel _something in my chest, like a tiny ember flaring briefly to life before the cold surrounding it envelops and douses its flame.

I lean against the pharmacist's back door and I let the decision wash over me in dizzying waves. It's over, it's done, and there's no going back after it. They need to _see. _They need to see, and I've finally come up with a way to show them. Oh…

It's a beautiful day. The irony in that isn't lost on me. A beautiful day I've chosen.

_ When she died, the sky was thick with clouds, and a light rain was falling on my hunched back and shoulders. It was bitterly cold, and the breeze bit and snapped at all of my exposed skin. I did the best I could to shield her from the rain, but it didn't do much good. She was dying. The rain didn't matter anymore. _

Annabelle didn't get to die on a beautiful day. Anyone who gets that opportunity is _lucky._

The pharmacist's back door is locked, as I expected it would be. I've been watching her for over a month now, and finding her home was easy enough. It took a little more time to ascertain that she lived alone, with only a dog to keep her company.

That didn't surprise me. A _bitch _like her wouldn't understand family. She wouldn't understand—she doesn't deserve the chance to ever have one of her own.

The back door is useless, but I've been planning this for a long time, and I know what to do. Next to the door is a small window, protected only by a layer of thin glass. One of my fingers presses lazily against the handle of the instrument clutched in my hand. Gently, I lift the hammer to the window. In my other hand is my winter coat, unnecessary in summer. I press the coat against the window, and swing.

The tinkling of glass is _just _loud enough that she might have heard, but nowhere near the volume necessary to really grab her attention. I pull the hammer back and drape the coat over my shoulder. Then I grasp the window frame and heave myself up. I am six feet and two inches of teenage boy, and yet I find it ridiculously easy to pull myself up and into the window. I might not have been eating very much over the past few months, but my strength hasn't yet left me.

I am somehow able to ease myself onto the floor without much trouble. The bottle inside my coat pocket bumps against my shoulder as I run a hand through my short brown hair. So far, everything has gone according to plan. And even if it hadn't, I doubt I would be particularly concerned. There is nothing in Panem that could possibly stop me from revenging myself on this woman. Not after what she did to us.

_Annabelle's tiny frame was wracked in coughs and shivers. Her lips were shiny with spittle and her eyes were dull, almost lifeless. There was practically nothing left to her but skin stretched tight over thin bones. _

_ My own throat was so clogged with mucus that I could barely get out a sound. "Annie," I whispered, "You're gonna go to sleep in a little while. And you're gonna wake up in the most beautiful place."_

_ She wriggled closer to me, reaching for my hand. I immediately enveloped her tiny hand in both of my calloused ones. "It won't be like here," I continue. "It never rains there, and it never gets cold. Nobody's hungry or thirsty and nobody's unhappy. Everybody loves each other. You're gonna love it there, Annie, I can tell._

_ "There's just one thing," I continue, somehow resisting the urge to howl, to sob. "I don't think—I don't think I'm ever gonna go there, Annie. So this might be the last time we see each other for a—for a long time, sweetheart."_

_ Somehow, her throat spews out some words. "Davey…? Why… not?"_

_ I grind my back teeth together so hard that it hurts. "Because I've done some bad things, Annie. And only good people can go there."_

I'm in the pharmacist's bathroom, I realize. The tiles are white and pristine. Nothing is out of place.

The hammer is hanging loosely from my fist. I correct my grip and ease open the door, sliding fluidly into the hallway.

Immediately, I catch movement out of the corner of my eye. A lump in the middle of the well-lit hallway begins to move, letting out a short whine. _Dog, _I remind myself, surging forward. It's an old dog, with grey on its muzzle. It cannot be allowed to warn her of what I plan to do.

The dog opens its jaws, to bark or bite I will never know. I cut it off by ramming the head of the hammer into its skull. It whines, in shock and pain, and I bear it to the pharmacist's polished floor. A few more hammer blows and the animal goes still. The hammer is sticky and warm with dog blood, and I hold it away from me to get a better look. The blood is ropy, congealed, and dangling from the hammer like spittle. The dog itself has clearly died, with a portion of its skull curved inwards in such a way that suggests almost immediate death.

I can't deny the warmth that spreads through me.

From a few rooms away comes a woman's voice. "Baxter? What's wrong?" Footsteps draw closer, and I tuck myself behind the door and wait. When the pharmacist approaches the hallway, I can _feel _her presence on the other side of the wall. My breath is short with anticipation. My palms are dripping with sweat.

She opens the door and steps into the hallway. She is half-naked, clad only in a tank top and her underwear. For a moment she stares confusedly at the dripping mess in the hallway. Then she throws herself away from the mutilated dog, a scream building up in her throat.

I grab her by the neck and squeeze, and the scream dies away.

She doesn't struggle much. Perhaps she thinks that this is something different than it is. Perhaps she knows that she doesn't stand a chance. Either way, she goes limp under my rough hand, breathing quickly.

"If you scream," I whisper, into her ear, "I'll kill you." She nods rapidly, red hair brushing against my cheek. She seems to be a smart woman, so I let her go. The hammer is ready, after all, and she wouldn't be able to get much out before I crushed her skull.

She stands in front of me, trembling violently. "Turn around," I tell her, and hesitantly she swivels to face me. Her face betrays no recognition, and it makes me hate her all the more.

"I don't think you remember me," I tell her.

She shakes her head. "Oh no, I do, I _do, _I swear, please—"

"_Shut up." _She falls silent, whimpering and gnawing at her bottom lip. "You do _not _speak." I take a step towards her. "So you don't remember me. Let me bring you back up to speed."

I reach into my coat pocket for the bottle and the rag. She's so focused on my face that she doesn't notice. I can see the gears working, desperately, _where have I seen this man, scarred cheek, light eyes, where have I seen him…?_

"My name is Luther Davenport," I tell her, carefully unscrewing the bottle cap with one hand. It is still out of the pharmacist's view, so she doesn't react. "I came to you in January. I _needed your help._ My sister, she needed penicillin, she needed it to _live. _Do you remember what you said?"

She remembers now. I can see it in her eyes.

"You told me that you couldn't help me. We were _on the street_, my father and I had been fired without warning, we were practically starving. I told you all that then, and I _swore _to you I would find a way to reimburse you."

"No, no," she's whispering. Her brown eyes are filled with tears.

"And you told me that she wasn't worth the risk."

I lunge forward and knock her to the ground next to her mutt. She kicks violently but I press down on her throat, preventing a single scream from coming forth. I remove the bottle from my coat, and her eyes widen as she realizes what it is.

She's a pharmacist, after all, and any pharmacist worth her salt would know what hydrochloric acid was.

"No!" she whispers, and then I jam the open bottle in between her teeth. I tilt it back and her eyes immediately bulge with pain. Only when the bottle is empty do I pull it away from her. Immediately she works her lips to spit out the acid, but I jam the rag in between her teeth. She strains her arms, desperate to pull it out, but I have her wrists in a vice-like grip.

And so the acid works its way down her throat. She does her best to scream, but the acid very quickly removes that as a possibility. Her body thrashes wildly and hysterical tears pour down her cheeks. She exists in this state for a minute, maybe two, before she collapses into unconsciousness. With her quiet, I can actually _hear _the acid eroding her throat and esophagus.

If she isn't already dead, she will be in a few minutes.

I leave her there, with her dead dog. I take the bottle with me, but I don't honestly care if I leave it and it is identified as mine. After all, I've already made my decision.

She deserved to die. She, with her opulence and finery, deserved to die.

But there are so many _more._

Every rich man and woman who walked by our street corner and averted their eyes, every one of them that pointed and laughed at the "dirty street kids," every single _person _who had enough money to help but did nothing, they all deserve the execution.

And I can't get them all.

But I can get their children.

The Pack children and any other rich little brats who find themselves locked in a Game from which they will not escape are the ones that I will destroy, on live television. Their parents will watch them scream and thrash and beg, and I will watch them too, and I will_ smile._

They killed my Annabelle. They _killed _her.

It's only what they deserve.


End file.
